


all of the things (that i'm not)

by vertigo



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: AFTG Mixtape Exchange 2021, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Assistant Coach Kevin Day, Cleveland, Eventual Smut, Gaslighting, Kevin Finds Himself, Kissing, M/M, Major Character Injury, Major League Exy, Musical References, Professional Exy (All For The Game), Professional Exy Player Aaron Minyard, history nerd Kevin Day, medium-to-slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-13 03:48:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 38,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29022231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vertigo/pseuds/vertigo
Summary: It took three swats of his racquet (heavy, short in length, shallow net depth, one parallel red mark on the middle of the body) to break Kevin's hand and spirit.
Relationships: (past) Kevin Day/Jean Moreau, Kevin Day/Aaron Minyard
Comments: 54
Kudos: 77
Collections: AFTG Mixtape Exchange 2021





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [foxyroxi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxyroxi/gifts).



> WHOA! It's finally here, after all the sweat, tears and days tearing my hairs out of their roots, it's here!  
> First and foremost: whoa, writing this to you was a pleasure! You gave me such an amazing song! It was hard keeping this from you, seeing how much we talk, and there were so many times I wanted to scream about this fic with you!!!! But thank you for being this amazing human.
> 
> As you know, this is about to get long, so expect updates in a few days!!
> 
> I'd like to thank all the support I got, especially from my taste tester [phantom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/passive_phantom/pseuds/passive_phantom) and my amazing betas [Jenn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RainbowObsidian/pseuds/RainbowObsidian) and [Coop](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentCoop/pseuds/AgentCoop). This work wouldn't be the same without the three of you!
> 
> I'd also like to thank [mandi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/likearecord/pseuds/likearecord) and [zan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/justadreamfox/pseuds/justadreamfox) for creating this challenge and putting up with me, it was a pleasure to take part in this exchange!
> 
> My assignment was All The Things (I'm Not) by Drew Sycamore! Go listen and vibe to it!

Kevin always tried his best to remember his mother, but with time, things faded in his head. These days, Kayleigh Day was nothing but a yellowed Polaroid, the edges crinkled and stained with the natural grease from fingers. Her once brilliant smile faded, glossy black hair now matte and those emerald eyes are dull. 

He doesn't remember much from his childhood, except for a foreign feeling of arms holding him and a soft voice whispering in Irish.

_My golden boy, my star. My Kevin._

His brain supplied the words in English; through his life the only way he had to keep her voice in his head was by sneaking out of his bedroom at night to watch the few low resolution videos of his mother talking. No matter the language, his mother's voice was melodious, gentle but firm. Her laugh was like wind chimes, harmonising with the many golden bracelets she wore, that twinkled under the studio lights.

When he first started college, he would stay up for hours, watching the same two or three videos long after dark (soft laughter, _I have two kids, exy and Kevin._ , crooked front teeth, long calloused fingers, soft laughter, silky black hair swaying), until invariably Riko would find him and mock him, as if he too wasn't desperately clinging to the flashes of his father and brother on the news. 

And when he found him, he would beat him. Because Kevin was a dog, a dog that needed to learn his place. Kayleigh was gone, had been gone for so many years, and his alliance should be to the Master and the Master only.

Still, Riko finding him was the lesser of two evils; the only time Tetsuji caught him up awake at night resulted in two cracked ribs, which he trained and played through, the pain threatening to split his torso in half but he couldn't - wouldn't - stop.

Until Riko stopped him. 

It took three swats of his racquet (heavy, short in length, shallow net depth, one parallel red mark on the middle of the body) to break Kevin's hand and spirit. He still remembered the echo of his screams, the feel of each delicate bone breaking.

And breaking.

And breaking.

Kevin remembers taking shelter somewhere in the bowels of some stadium, cradling his limp hand against his chest. He cried and cried and got up to search for his father,knowing that coach Wymack would take him in without question. But he ran out of his nonexistent luck when Tetsuji found him and made him kneel like a dog. Always obedient, Kevin begged for help, just as he was expected to. The sound of his pleading was etched in his mind, _help me Master, please, please it hurts._ The sensation of the back of Tetsuji’s hand across his face to silence him never left his memory either.

Like a bad secret, he was kept in the shadows. There were doctors. So many doctors.

_SON OF EXY KEVIN DAY INJURES LEFT HAND IN SKI ACCIDENT._

For months he had been in and out of hospitals. Add a titanium plate here. Screw a pin in there. Don't move. Keep your hand on a spiderweb of traction. The first year was the worst. His hand hurt, burned, swelled. Drain the wound. Re-open to try to reattach nerves. Remove scar tissue.

But still - maniacally still - Kevin had _hope_ and so he trudged through his second year of college. 

In the second year after his injury, the Ravens shipped him to Germany for the best of what sports medicine could offer. He watched from across the sea as the PSU Foxes, despite everyone's predictions, rose enough to upset the careful balance of the big dogs of NCAA Exy. Not good enough to defeat Riko, but good enough to cause an impact. The tiny line up, the underdog who bit them. When he rang to talk to Riko, his brother would only say how much Nathaniel Wesninski would pay. 

Somehow, Nathaniel Wesninski became Neil Josten.  
Befriended Ichirou Moriyama.  
Freed Jean Moreau.

Kevin remembered finding a payphone in the hospital, his trembling and numb fingers punching Jean's number after Jeremy broke the news to the press. 

_Is it true?_ French: their language. 

_Yes._ Jean, sounding beaten and broken.

 _My God Jean!_ Love. Relief. _You're free!_

 _Yes._ Survivor's guilt. _But you are still trapped, come with me Kevin, please._ Love. Fear. Devotion.

 _I can't Jean, I can't. The Master said I will be back next year I can..._ Hope, overflowing. Back then Kevin had been thankful for Tetsuji's care. 

_Kevin please leave._ Fear, anguish, so much love and devotion. _You can strike a deal with Lord Moriyama._

 _And offer him what exactly, Jean?_ Anger, acid pouring out of his mouth. 

_Kevin please._ Dial tone.

Kevin, despite not being able to do much, had honestly imagined Tetsuji would help him, not relegate him to a position of Assistant Coach, which meant nothing when Tetsuji Moriyama was head coach. He could never have imagined he would sit on the sidelines, watching players come and go. He tried once to tell Tetsuji to try a maneuver, just to have a cane press painfully against his foot. 

Riko had witnessed the whole conversation and pulled him close in a hug. Riko smelled like the Court: sweat, adrenaline and victory. It was a heady ambrosia Kevin drank in with no small amount of jealousy.

And when Riko had pressed down on the badly healed bones, Kevin had held back the tears. 

That year, the unthinkable happened. For the first time in the existence of the Ravens - and NCAA Exy -they were out of the finals. Foxes and Trojans.

He laughed through a mouth full of blood that night. 

After that, every day in the Nest was a nightmare. The Court was so close and yet so far from him. Riko used him as his personal stress reliever and Kevin took it with his head down. He submitted to being beaten, cut, demeaned, forgotten until Riko became what he wanted. 

A star. Number one, as his tattoo indicated.

But still, Kevin felt vindicated by the unlikeliest of the allies: the media would constantly be asking if Riko was truly number one. Raised in the Nest, shipped to his uncle's pro team as soon as he graduated. Without Kevin his performance wasn't all that good. Still good enough to be memorable, but not good enough to warrant the full attention of the press. Reporters and bloggers would pour their love onto other people like Nathaniel - no, Neil Josten, mobster son, fastest man on the Court; Andrew Minyard, a fan favorite, poster-child of recovery through Exy, and CSA survivor who would shut the goal if the mood striked. Jeremy Knox, the one who pushed his team to play with only the minimum amount of players, honored and esteemed captain of the Trojans, king of fair-play and Exy’s golden boy. Jean Moreau, the man who was putting the backliner position in the spotlight, with the media speculating heavily about how he did better with the Trojans in comparison to his Raven self. 

Victory, Kevin felt, was overrated. What the media really wanted was gossip, the story that will move people forward. They don't want a ready-made victor. They want guts and glory. 

Kevin closed his fist around the wheel; just the right one, the left was permanently damaged, despite his best efforts. Which didn't help. Kevin Day was nothing but a sad story, and with the dimming of his glow, came the dimming of his mother's glow. It didn't take long for the media to forget about Kayleigh Day and herald Tetsuji as the creator of exy, relegating his mother to a simple helper (even though it had been _her thesis, her idea, her baby_ ). 

And that's what hurt the most. That's what made Kevin sneak in into Tetsuji's office and steal all of his mother's belongings. That's what pumped air into his lungs and forced the words out of his mouth: in a rare display of bravery, he turned down Tetsuji's offer to keep on being an assistant coach once he graduated. 

It hurt, God it had hurt him so bad. Kevin still felt the weight of the silver raven on the edge of Tetsuji's cane hitting him time and time again across the ribs.

But he had powered through it, picked up whatever he wanted to keep, packed it into a cardboard box and just _left_.

Like it was the easiest thing in the world to do. Punched the access code on the way out and breathed in the pure night air. Kevin had wondered that day how long it had been since he’d seen the moon and the stars bright in the sky. He walked across campus, between the sleek black Japanese cars with the plates only two digits away from each other, through the dark roads of Edgar Allen, and out into the street. His poor broken and never good again hand clinging to his box. Down the lane, followed by the moon, the stars and the headlights on the street. Down, down, down until daybreak. Until his tired body could walk no more, until his stupid broken hand couldn't hold the weight of the box anymore. Until he could find the cheapest motel and allow his body to rest in a mattress that smelled like other people and had springs that dug into his back.

Freedom felt like a balm. Like the creams the Germans would spread over the back of his left hand, seeping into his muscles and relaxing them.

The morning after, freedom tasted bitter. It felt like iodine on freshly open wounds. He stared at himself on the TV, images on repeat of him covered in vomit and booze, the headlines telling all about the fall from glory from Exy's once-beloved star. He had predicted the way the professional teams would revoke their previous coaching offers. _We cannot help you, Mr. Day_ , they had all said. 

He should have known Tetsuji would find a way to back him into a corner, publicly beat him into submission, make Riko appear on Jimmy Fallon and say the Ravens would welcome Kevin with open arms and help him with his sobriety. Kevin had never before scoffed at his former brother, but that time he did it. Loudly - to the empty, smelly motel room.

Kevin was a wounded animal, backed into a corner and afraid. What was he without the Ravens? He already knew he was a cautionary tale without Exy, someone used to exemplify the perils of snow sports, alongside Michael Schumacher. Without the Ravens, Kevin was just another nobody with a Physical Therapy diploma that he had pursued dispassionately. 

That day he had considered drinking the contents of the mini-bar in the corner. But he didn't, he couldn't. Kevin only came down in the middle of the night, like a thief tiptoeing to insert some coins in the snacks machine and come back to his room.

For four days he watched the reporters waiting for him on the streets after being ratted out by an underpaid hotel clerk looking for some fast cash. Eventually he closed the curtains and instead started picking through the box he’d brought with him from The Nest. He thumbed through his mother's thesis, which had been typed on an old typewriter and contained drawings made by her beautiful hand. Kevin rummaged through the black box with his mother's jewelry: beautiful silver necklaces, golden bands and a claddagh ring he'd seen in passing. He picked it up and turned it over and over under the thin stream of light coming through the closed curtains. It fit tightly on his pinky and Kevin, for the first time in a while, felt like his mother's boy again.

He then looked through a brown manilla folder full of photos The first was of him in his mother's arms while she talked to Wymack on the driveway of what was probably her house. Wymack's tribal flame tattoos looked freshly healed and he held a six pack of beer in his hands. His mother looked tired, holding the small bundle in her arms. Kevin held back tears at that moment; if his mother hadn’t been so selfless that might have been just one of their many family pictures. In another picture she smiles at Wymack and Rhemann; both of them with the typical 80's full mustache and muscle shirts. The last picture is of his mother only, her shirt pulled down as baby Kevin latched to a nipple. There are discolored stripes over it and Kevin ran to the bathroom to throw up. To think Tetsuji defiled the most sacred moment between himself and his mother somehow hurt worse than all of the blows he’d received in all his life.

On the fourth day, someone knocked on his door. A long forgotten voice whispered against the cheap wood. _Open up, Kevin._

French.

He scrambled for the doorknob, pulling Jean inside and breathing in his cologne. Jean told him he smelled like a hobo and bathed him. Sat him down on the bed and fed him. They kissed softly as Jean explained to him, bit by bit how he got him a contract to be an assistant coach in Ohio. It wasn't a big team- just the small Cleveland Black Jackets, a major league Exy team - and the payment wasn't even that good. But Kevin found himself saying yes even before Jean finished what he had to say. He kissed Jean's lips in gratitude and let him out into the night.

On the fifth morning he pushed through the throng of reporters, waved his injured hand in dismissal and disappeared into the crowd. He bought the best cheapest car he could find, shoved his box in the backseat and set off for Ohio. It was only eight hours drive, but the season was still four months away and he could take his time.

The road stretched ahead of him, cold and wet and slippery while the winds blew. He stopped by a tiny store on the way from Virginia to Ohio and bought himself a pair of cheap sunglasses and a walkman then stopped to rummage around his box. His car had a cassette player and his mom had had a lot of cassette tapes. Kayleigh's musical taste was very clear: Kiss, Scorpions, Zztop, Queen. Things he never thought he would like. He hung Kayleigh's cast iron locket on the rear view mirror, opening it once in a while so he could stare at his baby self and his mother's brilliant smile, then sped along the deserted highway, the feeling of freedom fueling his euphoria. 

Despite his best intentions of a road trip, telling himself he was in no hurry to arrive at his destination, Kevin felt the old itch for the court down to his bones. The euphoria wore itself thin when he reached Cleveland, and Freddie Mercury's crooned _nothing really matters - nothing really matters to me._

That's when he’d broken down, parked out the back of the Black Jacket's court, and finally let out all of the sadness and regret that had been pooling in his gut for twenty four years.. Freedom still tasted bitter and he was suddenly aware that from now on, he was alone. He turned off the song, dried his eyes, took a deep breath and got out of the car.  
Despite how small the stadium is, it still is a stadium, and it still sends the shivers down Kevin’s spine. He moves quickly from his brown Volkswagen to the entrance and rings the intercom, then waits impatiently for a few minutes before it is opened by a man with deep lines on his face, grey hair starting to melt into brown locks and a warm smile that spreads across his lips. Pete Sanders, the Black Jackets' head coach is staring at Kevin as if he’s the best gift he’s received in his whole life. "Kevin Day!" he says, stretching a hand for him to shake. "In flesh! I can't say how happy I am to have you here!" 

Kevin shakes his hand, a polite smile curling at his lips. "Mr. Sanders, thank you for having me, I-"

"Nonsense, come out of the cold, you have a contract waiting for you!" Sanders tugs on his hand and he goes, his steps short but determined as they cross the well lit bowels of Echo Stadium. "My God, how happy I am to have snagged you.," he says, jostling the door to his office, knobby fingers pointing to a chair and a table. Kevin's contract lays open and he moves to read it with a detached sense of pleasure. Like Jean said, the pay isn't good, but it’s a start. This is how he will build himself up again.

Kevin signs it within five minutes as Sanders mutters _yes yes yes_ under his breath, as if the mere thought of having Kevin Day by his side is the greatest honor he can have. "Mr. Sanders, please let me thank you for allowing me to be here; I… I hope my work is good enough for you."

"Good enough?" Sanders laughs, his voice melodious and rusty at the same time, echoing in the small office of his. "My boy," he says with such softness that Kevin recoils inside, "you are Kayleigh Day's son. I've seen you on the court. If anything _I_ should be the one to thank you." The man rolls up the contract, stuffing it in a brown paper envelope and places it on a pile labeled _Legal Stuff_. "I am truly honored to have you with us, finally God is smiling at us. First Minyard, then Day."

"Wait," Kevin balks, his left fingers trembling. "You got Andrew Minyard?"

Sanders shakes his head. "Aaron. The higher ups didn't have enough money for the big dog Minyard. But I guess we got the best of them."

Aaron Minyard is both a mystery and a delightful surprise: he's seen the Lifetime reenactment of the time he drove an Exy racquet through his brother’s rapist’s head. He's heard through the grapevine the _don't worry, he's the inferior Minyard. He's just at PSU because of the scholarship_ gossip, and how in his last two years at college, he simply snapped into something _fearsome._ Most people underplay him, casting Aaron aside as a cheap copy of Andrew. But Kevin had seen his potential. The hunger in his plays. 

He is someone Kevin can shape into _something_. "I guess that by the silence you like our acquisition."

"He’s fine. Pretty rough around the edges, but fine." 

Sanders laughs again, a sound that comes from his belly and falls from his lips. 

"Boy oh boy you sound like Kay," he says fondly, patting the table before turning in his chair to look up at a framed picture of himself in his old Cardinals uniform next to Kayleigh Day in a beautiful black dress. "You know boy, she _hated_ that dress."

Kevin smiles at Sanders, a bit terse and media-ready. "Thank you, I appreciate the comparison with my mother," Kevin says, and in return, Sanders clicks his tongue, and twirls his pen like a baton.

"Now you sound like Moriyama," Sanders spits in the trashcan nearby as soon as the name is out of his mouth. Kevin raises an eyebrow involuntarily. He’s never seen someone hate that name so much. "Got a place to stay boy?" 

"Not yet, I was going to book into a hotel nearby…"

Sanders blows air loud from his thin chapped lips. "Stay with me for a while, boy. I have so many memories from Kayleigh to share. Indulge an old man," he pleads and Kevin thinks of his savings; the only money he gets nowadays is the few royalties Tetsuji was unable to funnel for himself. He has some money saved, a contingency for dark times. Staying with Sanders might be good, the man will be the main coach, they will have to work in tandem for the team to crawl out of the third-to-last place in the MLE. Building bridges it's essential now he finds himself truly alone and still haunted by the lies Tetsuji repeatedly feeds the media.

"Sure, why not?" Kevin acquiesces with a nod and watches as Sanders' stare travels from his face to his injured hand. It's an awful sight for anyone, but he doesn't seem to linger on the scars, his brown eyes instead fixon his pinkie.

"You have your mother's ring, huh?" he asks while turning off the lights and motioning for Kevin to follow him. Pete Sanders walks slowly, with the gait of someone who’s seen too many injuries. When they get outside Kevin realises his had been the only car in the parking lot and he looks at Pete with another raise of his eyebrow. "Give an old man a ride, will you? You know anything about knee ligaments?"

"Yeah, I have a degree in PT."

"Tore all of them. I also have no cartilage in my left shoulder." Kevin unlocks the car, sitting down in the driver's seat and patiently waiting for Sanders to get in, the groan and pop of his joints audible from his spot. "I’ll show you around Cleveland on our way home." 

The drive is slow, as Sanders points out his favorite Subways and Thai restaurants, along with the cheapest markets around town. Sanders' apartment is only a few miles from the stadium, and there are several signs announcing apartments for rent, the smiling faces of local realtors plastered out the front. They go upstairs slowly; Sanders explains on the way up that his elevator is perpetually broken, and even when it works, it's better to take the stairs. 

His apartment is small and he points Kevin to an impossibly well kept visitor's bedroom, where Kevin drops his backpack with the few clothes he managed to snag from the Nest and comes back to the living room, only to find Sanders with a photo album and two glasses of beer.

"You've seen the pictures, right?" Kevin asks, taking a seat on the sofa and leaving a polite two feet between him and his new coach. 

Sanders dismisses it with a wave of his hand. "Rock bottom Kevin," he says simply, his own mug raised and awaiting a toast. "Been there, done that, from now on we indulge in drinking like responsible adults." Kevin doesn't have a counter argument, so he just raises his glass and drinks a mouthful of artisanal beer. "Come here, let me show you the old gang."

Kevin closes the gap cautiously and peers at the well kept pictures. The first one he sees is his mom, her head thrown back as she laughs with baby-him in her arms. The second features Sanders and Larson, the first female striker on the Court, frozen forever in the middle of a conversation, their eyes alight with happiness. The third one is of his biological father, his young face frozen in a frown as he and Coach Rhemann look down. "If Kayleigh never told you who your father was, then I'd advise you to ask for these two DNA" Sanders says around a gulp of beer. "Not to spoil your mother's memory but she was as polygamous as a mormon. Those two were the lucky ones."

Indeed, Kayleigh never told him. He’d found out who his father was in a letter Tetsuji kept hidden between his books. "She was?" Kevin asks, swirling the beer around his mouth as he continues to look at the pictures. 

"She sure was. Kayleigh believed in love, and if she loved David and James at the same time, well she loved David and James at the same time." Sanders shrugs, flicking the sepia-toned and yet glossy pictures. The next batch was a bit gloomier, his mother's hard stare being directed to Tetsuji. "Oh for context: you were about three weeks old when your mother arranged that reunion. All those here? First american exy players who would later become team owners and legends. _Her gang_ , she called them." Sander traces the edges of the pages, his eyes flicking between each face. "She was mad because you started crying and when she breastfed you, Tetsuji came with a towel and threw it on top of you." His tongue clicks, once twice, and he shakes head. "I recognized the ring because she shoved you in David's arm and punched Moriyama so hard it left a claddagh imprint on his face."

Kevin's eyes had gone wide, he had no idea his mother was capable of violence. "...She did?"

"Boy, Kayleigh was a _beast_ when it came to you. She said if Moriyama couldn't understand that breastfeeding was normal he should leave." Sanders runs a hand through his messy brown hair, a large smile splitting his face in two as he shows Kevin the next pictures of Kayleigh holding him close, uncaring of her left breast hanging from the shirt. "That was the beginning of the end."

Kevin cocks his head to the side and tries to slow down the beating of his heart. This is the first glimpse he’s had of his mother other than his few photos and some old interviews on youtube, viewed in secret on his tiny phone screen. "What do you mean?"

Sanders closes the album with a resounding thud, his back hitting the sofa as he mulls. "Everyone knew Moriyama wanted your mother. When you were born he started to freak out… I guess your mother used to pay a lot of attention to him during their college years, as friends of course, but when Exy took off and Kayleigh surrounded herself with her gang, especially David and James, Moriyama lost it." Kevin watches as Sanders looks at the blank television as if it could play whatever scenes he holds in his mind. "He courted her, she turned him away. That creates friction you know? A bit before she passed away, she told us she was leaving for Ireland."

His mother never made it. Somehow the brakes of her car didn't work. Kevin was lucky to be alive. 

Kevin remains silent, rolling the words in his head. "Don't think about it too much, boy," Sanders says, turning on the TV and immediately smiling. "Come on now let's see if David's team will hold without Minyard."

"You know him well?"

"Minyard?"

"Coach Wymack."

Sanders clicks his tongue, once, twice and then smiles at Kevin. "Tough bastard. Asshole sometimes. But he is one of the greatest men I've ever known."

It’s late, and he’s tired, but Kevin stays awake, even though his legs hurt after the long hours on the road. His body tells him to sleep, but he can’t unglue his eyes from Neil Josten, zipping between Beckenridge's backliners. His traitorous brain starts to work in the wrong way. What if he’d managed to get to Wymack that day so many years ago? Would he and Neil stand tall together? Work seamlessly?

He goes to sleep that night with the bitter taste of regret tingling in the back of his throat.

In the morning, Kevin wakes up before the sunrise and tiptoes through the house, finding Sanders' stash of coffee beans and pours them out onto the table. He takes a deep breath and goes through the process of painstakingly picking them one by one with his clumsy fingers and putting them back in the jar. 

He’s frustrated with his own disability; four years of doctors and intensive PT haven't done a thing for him. His fingers still won't answer the commands in the way he wants, his scar pulses whenever the temperature is low, and bank doors answer loudly to the titanium plates, as if he is a bomber. Kevin swears under his breath, then startles when he sees that Sanders is in the doorway, his hawk-like stare surveying the mess of scar tissue across the back of his hand. He stares at it, assessing the damage from a distance. Sanders looks far too wise, nothing like the media hawks that accepted the flimsy skiing excuse. Kevin feels the prickle of fear on the back of his neck, the sweat rolling down his nape.

"Mr. Sanders, I'm sorry I-"

Sanders lifts up a hand, effectively stopping Kevin as he picks up the coffee grinder. "What are you doing?"

"PT. They said it was a way to teach my hand how to work again.” 

"Tell me the truth," Sanders says, and Kevin freezes. "How functional is your left hand?" The fear is a boa, constricting his stomach until he feels last night's beer touch the back of his throat.

"I have about 85% of sensation back. Mostly I can't feel a thing in the tips of my fingers and where the scar is. I can do easy movements, hold a cup, hold large things for a short period of time." Kevin tries to flex his hand and his fingers don't close all the way, making it look more like a claw movement. "That's why they told me to keep picking up small things, fine motor skills are hard to manage without screwing up."

Sanders nods to all of that and Kevin thinks that he might not be a stranger to terrible injuries. "Keep doing that, I'll wait until you fill the coffee grinder."

Kevin feels his eyes grow huge. "That will take a long time," he says, moving one bean on the table. But Sanders just laughs, and it comes from his belly and reverberates in the hand that slaps his own scarred knee. 

"Have somewhere to be?" he asks, and Kevin shakes his head. "Neither do I, so we have all the time in the world." 

He's oddly touched by the gesture and nods, starting to delicately try to pinch each bean with his thumb and forefinger, then place it in the grinder. Sanders is infinitely patient with him, even calls out when Kevin's pinch is sloppy. "Sorry." Kevin flinches, his hand spasming with fear- he knows he must look pathetic with his hunched shoulders and burning ears on display to a complete stranger, but the reprieve from his former coach has always provoked a visceral reaction in him.

And the hawk-like stare returns; Sanders looks at him like he can read his whole story with the way he flinches. Sanders finally sighs, rubbing a hand across his stubble, the other one pushing the beans closer to Kevin. "Boy, I don't know what Moriyama did to you, but I know the bastard. I know how he operates. And I know being your mother's friend a long time ago doesn't make me reliable, but I'm here for you, whenever you need me." Kevin obediently nods, his eyes downcast as he pinches another bean, correctly this time. "Try it with your thumb and middle finger."

Kevin tries, and tries, flinches when a bean slips from his fingers.

It becomes routine.

Like so many other things between him and Sanders. 

It's a new one for him, this sort of camaraderie made from mutual respect and zero beatings.

In the mornings, Kevin sorts beans, then follows Sanders downstairs to the modest gym his apartment offers. Sanders may be graying, but he trains like he's Kevin's age. Sometimes he wants to laugh, he calls Sanders out when he's not mindful of his knee, and Sanders fights back, whistling sharply and loudly when Kevin ignores the limitations and pains on his left hand.

In the evenings, more often than not, they sit on the couch, sharing unhealthy takeout and watching college Exy.

During his second week, Sanders appears with a VHS in his hand, his tongue always clicking. "Want to see your mother completely drunk?" he asks with a smirk as Kevin slurps his pasta carbonara. 

"What?" he asks dumbly as Sanders pops in the VHS and hits play. The TV shows nothing but static before the loud sounds pop up. Kevin recognizes the distinct notes of Barracuda playing, and his mom pops up, the black dress hiking to the middle of her thighs as she headbangs. The usual well kept black hair Kevin has seen in so many videos is in disarray, poofed up with too much hairspray. Coach Wymack is fallen on the couch, holding out a bottle of what looks like cheap wine to his mom and coach Rhemann is singing along, using a broom as a microphone.

Like that, his mother looks impossibly young and human - so far from the Exy goddess that appears in every interview. Sanders is hitting a keyboard, offkey and it has nothing to do with the song. Larson and Abdullah - one of the greatest defensive dealers in Exy's history - hold on to each other and to a bag of popcorn. The Master is sitting in a corner, barely visible, but Kevin knows the weight of his disgusted stare. 

"Good times, my boy."

Kevin watches, entranced as his mother switches from English to French to her heavy Irish to the songs. "Was she fun?"

"What?" Sanders asks and his eyes look glassy, like he's relieving that moment all over again. The hairs on his arm are raised and he looks like he might cry and laugh at the same time.

"My mother. Was she fun?"

Sanders laughs, wiping what looks like moisture from the corner of his eyes. "She was everything. Kay was a microcosm of her own. She would be stern, firm and downright vicious when she was on the Court. Off the Court though? She was the life of the party. Look," Sanders says, pointing to the screen, where Kevin’s mother is now singing Ozzy Osbourne in between healthy swigs of the wine bottle, "all eyes are on her. She was a star. She was betelgeuse. She drew all of us in." 

Kevin keeps on watching his mother laugh and laugh as if she didn't have a care in the world. He watches as she wraps her arms around Wymack. Steals popcorn from Larson. "She was a lioness," Sanders continues when the video fizzles into static. "After you were born we all saw how fierce she was."

He goes to sleep feeling lighter. Like he's finally unwrapping all of the layers that made his mother who she truly was. 

The following day, Sanders moves their ritual to the low coffee table in the living room and waves two cases of DVDs at Kevin. "Are you familiar with the team you're going to co-coach?"

"A bit yes…" Kevin flushes, his middle finger and thumb struggling to hold a chickpea. Sanders bypassed the coffee beans that morning ,grinding them, and brewing almost a liter of coffee for them, then mutters something about being up for some hummus later. Kevin knows virtually nothing about teams that aren't in collegiate exy or the US Court. "But…"

"There’s no shame saying you had no time to look at second rated teams in the MLE." Sanders waves his apologies away, putting in the first game and hitting play. "Put the peas down." He hands Kevin a clipboard full of empty sheets. "Today you practice with a pen, left handed please."

"But the hummus…" Kevin tries to deflect, but Sanders shuts him up with a look. "Fine."

The pen feels foreign in his left hand. He tries holding it as he used to before he tucks the pen between his middle and forefinger, all the remaining fingers gripping the pen hard as he tries writing his name. Sanders is patient with him, telling him they're about to watch the first game of last season and gives Kevin the numbers and name of the players he's about to see. He painstakingly slowly writes the name of each player and their number, leaving enough space to write his review. "Are we ready?"

Kevin nods, and focuses on the TV. The teamwork _might_ work, but the players are, in Kevin's not so humble opinion, _abysmal_. The Black Jackets are a team that even the pitifully small Foxes would defeat. When the match is over Sanders looks at him expectantly and Kevin's lips twitch down before he starts talking.

And talking.

And talking.

The look on Sanders' face goes from sadness to fondness in intervals like a metronome. And if Kevin had anything good to say about the team, it's focused on how they are able to get to the ball. And that's it. "Wow, this was certainly weird. Not sure how I feel about hearing Kayleigh crawl from your mouth while you wear Wymack's frown. Also you’re a bit too Moriyama-esque for my taste; we’ll have to work on your people skills," Sanders finally says, frowning at Kevin as if he could see all of the truths in his core. "He's your father, right?"

It's only because of years of The Master's heavy PR training that Kevin doesn't flinch, he remains stoic, looking at Sanders with the most neutral stare he can manage. Finally he unglues the tongue from the roof of his mouth and says, " I don't know. Did she tell anyone about it?"

Sanders scoffs, sinking further in the sofa as he looks to the ceiling. "Never told a soul. She kept the pregnancy a secret until she couldn't physically hide it. I asked her once why she did that," he rubs a hand over this beard, upsetting the white hairs that mingle with the dark brown, then picks up a pen off the table. "She said she gave away too much. Everyone had a piece of her. You were supposed to be hers. I told you she was planning on going back to Ireland, right? She wanted to step out of the spotlight and focus on you."

Sanders looks infinitely old, his fingers clenching around the pen. 

"Too bad she…" Kevin can't finish the phrase, his own pen drawing clumsy circles around his notes. 

"Yeah, she would have made you the happiest kid in the world," Sanders says, squeezing Kevin's knee. "Another tape?"

And on they go, watching tape after tape after tape. Kevin's calligraphy vacillates between careful and unreadable, but he and Sanders keep up a steady conversation, identifying the urgent needs of the team, the less urgent and the few highlights Kevin can manage.

It becomes another routine. They sit and watch tapes over a giant thermos of coffee, going through every team they're facing this season, then onto the tapes of new recruits. Of course, Kevin focuses on Aaron's tape the most. He's a bit too short for a backliner; Kevin is used to players with Jean's and Thea's reach, but Aaron's height proves to be an advantage, as he can cut through players with impressive speed and strength. More than once he's seen the strikers bowing to make contact and Aaron giving the ball to his brother. And that is the first problem he will have to address: Andrew Minyard is a fantastic creature. There has never been a player like him; uninterested and yet talented and smart enough to dissect plays on the spot. Unfortunately, Aaron won't get a goalie like his twin, so Kevin will have to rework his plays to make him focus on their dealers instead. 

Sanders seems to agree with most of what he says, but also chips in from time to time, contradicting Kevin. It’s a challenge not to flinch and bow his head, and rather deal with this, coach to assistant coach, debating and arguing until they reach an agreement. It's odd to be heard and understood, not ignored and punished. He finds himself liking his company, and misses the old man when Sanders finds him an apartment nearby the court. 

The parting is bittersweet, he will miss Sanders’ constant banter dearly, but he finds himself breathing easier when he lays _his box_ in the middle of an almost empty studio apartment. It feels too big and too small at the same time: the first because it's his first apartment. His place. The latter because Kevin laughs when he steps directly into the living room, stubbing his toe against the furniture Sanders and him procured at yard sales across the city. He makes a dazed sweep around the apartment, marveling at _his_ space. 

The front door opens to a modest living room, furnished with a sofa that doesn't look big enough for him to sleep in but is placed directly across from the TV. To the sofa's right there's a table that's big enough for one, where he will have his laptop and enjoy the view from the generous window that allows the light to pour inside his apartment. The kitchen is right there, a long bench with a fridge, small cabinets, a sink, an oven, a stovetop and a microwave embedded in it. There's some sort of wall where the TV is mounted, dividing the living room from the bedroom, which contains only a double bed, giving it some semblance of privacy, and finally, there’s a bathroom that's only big enough for a small shower and a toilet. 

It's more than he ever thought he could have when he left the Nest. 

Kevin cracks his neck and starts to make the place truly his. He hammers nails on the walls and hangs the pictures he lifted from Tetsuji's office; covers his bed in red and gold Trojans' blankets; hangs towels and toilet paper and…

 _Breathes._ The air comes clean, filling his lungs. His ribs don’t hurt anymore.

 _Breathes._ Sanders gave him a smiling picture of his mother, bright like the sun.

 _Breathes._ The season will start in two months. The players are already in Cleveland. He and Sanders have a plan.

 _Breathes._ And cries. Kevin sits on the edge of his bed, letting out the tears he's been holding on for so long. He allows himself to feel his whole body shaking, trembling. He doesn't know why. Relief, anger, sadness, all of that wrecks his body with sobs. Kevin toys with the claddagh ring on his pinkie.

 _I'm gonna make it, Mom._ It's a promise. It's a prayer. 

Kevin plugs the ancient cassette player into the outlet and pops in one of his mom's tapes at random. He presses play and waits until the song fills his room. Kevin allows himself to laugh, to get up, to sing the lyrics loudly and uncaring of his neighbors. He closes his eyes and imagines his mom is there singing with him, black dress hiked up, black hair in disarray, jumping on the couch as a smile splits her face.

_I'm going off the rails on a crazy train._

It's his new ritual. Without Sanders he has to pick up the coffee beans alone, but he’s never lonely. He allows Ozzy Osbourne, Bruce Springsteen, Paul Stanley and whoever pops up in the old cassettes speak for his mom. On their ride to the first team meeting, Sanders laughs at his musical choice, adding him to his Spotify plan and telling Kevin to find a musical taste that's not trapped in his mom's love for rock. Maybe he will, but until then, Kevin will play the cassette and allow his mom to talk to him through her songs.

They walk, united, inside the stadium and into the spacious locker room, where the whole team and coordinators are waiting for them. Sanders greets everyone at large, a smile plastered on his face as he talks to his players."Welcome back," he says, and from the fond look on most of the players faces, he's a beloved coach. "And to the newcomers, welcome to Cleveland," Sanders says and a few players laugh with him. "For those who haven’t yet met the staff, this is Jack Miller, striker-slash-offensive-dealer coach and offensive coach; Daniel Fortin, backliner-slash-defensive dealer coach and our defensive coach; Luis Perez, goalie coach;” he points at each person as he introduces them to the room. “The lady who will patch you up when you need it, our beloved team doctor, Clara Young; Teddy Mitchell, PT extraordinaire; Malcom Baker - you can laugh now - our dietitian and cook." Kevin follows each nod from the technical team, nodding back at each of them. "I'm Pete Sanders, head coach, and this -" Sanders' hand slaps his shoulder so hard the sound fills the room, making some of the players cringe with sympathy, "-is the rightful heir of Exy, Kevin Day. He will be our assistant coach. The boy is a bit tactless - like his mom - but he means well. Kevin, you have anything to say?"

Kevin takes stock of all the faces around him. Some of them are friendly, some are in awe (it fills his heart with joy that the Day name can still elicit such a response) and there, at the back of the room, a pair of hazel eyes burn through him. Kevin holds Aaron Minyard's stare for a few seconds before speaking. "Sometimes you won't like me," he starts, and some of the players laugh. Sanders shakes his head. "But I'm open to conversation and I want to put the Black Jackets back on the map." Some of the players whoop and whistle, fists pumping in the air. Aaron remains stoic, clocking Kevin from head to toe. "And... I will do my best."

"Is ‘your best’ making this a cult like the Ravens?" Aaron asks once the celebrations die. 

"I'm sorry?"

"16 hour days. Training all the time. Shitty food. Hazing. Bullshit 13 Ravens drills," he continues. Sanders shifts from foot to foot and some of the players make a ping pong match with their eyes while the room stands in pregnant silence, looking from Aaron to Kevin and back again. "You know, Day. The Raven standard." 

It's no surprise that Josten would tell the Foxes all about the Ravens' insane practices, but it's a surprise to be confronted with his past in the early hours of his job. Kevin shrugs and Aaron cocks his head to the side. "You see me in a Ravens' uniform?" he finally asks and Aaron's eyes go wide. "Let's start with this: I am a _former_ Raven. I've chosen not to continue with them beca-"

"You mean you were cut for being a drunkard mess?" Aaron interrupts him and Kevin feels like he's been punched in the stomach. Regardless, he takes a shallow breath and continues:

"I've chosen not to continue with them," he repeats, more firmly than before. "And I chose not to continue the cycle of obsession of the Ravens. If, and only if, any of you want to learn the 13 Ravens Drills, I'll be more than happy to teach you." From the corner of his eye he sees Sanders and the rest of the coaches smiling. "But I won't impose it on the team. Like Sanders said, I am tactless and I won't hold back from telling you what I think. If I think you have sloppy footwork, I will tell you have sloppy footwork. If I think you're slacking, I will let you know. If I think you're doing a good job, I will tell you how you can improve on it." 

Some of the players snort and Aaron crosses his arms around his midsection tightly. "You won't praise us, coach?"

Kevin dismisses him with a flicker of his hand. "I believe that the improvement of the team should be praise enough. I'm not here to stroke anyone's ego. If you're looking for praise, turn on ESPN-E and watch the commentators."

Sanders pats his shoulder while he coughs into his own hand. "Like I said, tactless, but he grows on you." 

The rest of the team laughs, save for Aaron who keeps following Kevin with his eyes and Kevin is unable to tear his eyes away for the rest of the meeting. "We'll meet at the gym in the morning, Teddy already has a routine for each of you and he will give you your programs today before you leave. After that, you can eat, relax, get to know each other, and we'll meet on the court at one pm. We will do drills from one to two, then scrimmages for the afternoon and we’ll finish around six. We'll spend one hour hashing out the day's problems then come back the next day and follow the same routine." They all nod, except Aaron who keeps staring at Kevin, his bicep flexing each time he opens and closes his hand. "Baker also has a diet plan for each of you - and you better follow it. Our first game is in two months and hopefully with everyone's patience and dedication we will get something better than the bottom four. Now, let's hear from our team captain, Luke Cox. They're all yours Luke."

Kevin looks now at the man standing up; it would be rude not to pay attention to the team's captain. Luke Cox is a tall man, with a shaved head and a bright smile- a Trojans' graduate; not the best striker in the league, a 50/50 aim and sometimes abysmal footwork. But, like every Trojan graduate, the man carries a magnetic aura that draws all the players in. Kevin half listens to his spiel - something about unity and going forward that sounds like it’s coming directly from Jeremy Knox's mouth. Kevin finds himself distracted by Aaron's defiant posture. "Now let's join here for the first time this year." Luke raises a fist and the team gathers around him, arms raised and together and Luke says a prayer under his breath. "We're all we got. We're all we need."

"JACKETS!" It's a war cry, echoing through the locker room before they step away and the mood changes. The players who already are familiar with each other turn around, striking conversations about the holidays and their families. A few players flock around, calling newcomers to the fold. Luke steps forward, reaching out with his left hand. Kevin's stare drags down to his own braced injured hand and Luke splutters, offering him his right hand instead.

"Fuck, sorry coach. It's so nice to finally have you here, my god I played you back in your first year and you are an inspiration." Kevin takes the proffered hand, trying for a smile that feels rusty and bitter on his lips. "You were a beast. You were the best, man."

"Uh, thanks." It's a bittersweet reminder of what his life could have been. He supposes he will have to deal with that from now on. Kevin withstands maybe half an hour of small talk before he excuses himself from the locker room and makes his way to the offices. When he reaches the space he shares with Sanders, he sits on the ergonomic chair and steeples his fingers before reaching out for the computer and playing some of last years' games and going over his notes maniacally. This time he focuses not on his players, but on the opposing team and the dynamics between them. He writes down plays until his hand hurts and then Sanders is stopped in front of him, going over his chicken scrawl.

"They've all gone home Kevin, will you give me a lift?"

"Sure, give me…" Kevin pauses the game, then looks at how many minutes he has left of the video. "Twenty? I'm almost done with the Bobcats' plays. We play them in the third week, right?" The look on Sanders' face is torn between displeasure and awe, but he sits by Kevin's side, squinting at the screen as if he's trying to see whatever Kevin is seeing.

Kevin holds his breath, writing down all he can before he shakes his left hand. It hurts and burns, but he is going to make good on his word. He is going to put the Black Jackets back on the map. "You get home and rest that hand," Sanders says, frowning at Kevin's stiff movements. "Ice it. I can't afford to lose my second in command this soon." Kevin nods, powering down the computer and gathering his bag. Sanders shoves three additional papers in his hands. "Baker's diet for you, Teddy's gym routine and my tips after today's speech. Don't think you're exempt from the team's routine. Clara wants to see you tomorrow." He nods once more, following Sanders out of the dark hallways, and he’s surprised that it doesn't feel like the Ravens' particular brand of darkness. Instead, it actually fills Kevin with a small amount of pride for his work. He drives Sanders home, and waves him off when he leaves him with a warning to get some sleep so he’s prepared for tomorrow.

He is lulled to sleep by his mother’s voice playing quietly from an old youtube clip.

Come morning, Kevin and Sanders are the first in the gym as the rest of the team strides in in different lazy states of consciousness. Teddy runs them all through stretches, and shoos everyone away to work through their programs.. Today Kevin is grouped with the four strikers and two offensive dealers of the team, shoved away for leg day. His workout routine is demanding but light and he follows it dutifully, chatting all the way with the men and women around him. That is something Kevin never thought he'd crave: the easy camaraderie of the team. With the Ravens the only sound that could be heard at the gym was the grunt and screams of the players as they toyed with the edge of an injury while trying to be bigger, better. 

Every once in a while, a player disappears, summoned by someone else to occupy the space of Young's medical office. It comes as no surprise when the players dissipate for lunch and rest and Kevin is the last one to be called by the team's doctor. He wipes the sweat from his brow with the edge of his shirt. 

Clara awaits for him, her bright ginger hair pulled in a loose ponytail and a smile cracking her lips in two. "Come in, please," she says softly, gesturing to the medical bed, covered by a brand new paper.

"I haven't showered."

"Nonsense. None of them did when they came in." Kevin hoists himself up with a grimace and Clara's brown eyes focus on his hand. "Troubles with the left one?"

He shrugs, trying to flex his fingers. He might have gone a bit overboard with the writing yesterday. "Same old," he says, offering her his scarred hand. "If I write too much it gives me pain, but I have a PT routine…" Clara nods to everything, inspecting Kevin's hand with a calm but clinical look. "I can show it to you, if you think you can improve on it?" She nods again, then cleans the crook of Kevin's elbow with a cotton pad and alcohol.

"I'm sure we can think of things to help you, Kevin," Clara says with a smile, tying a tourniquet around his arm and drawing three vials of blood. "There, you were the best patient of the day. Most of the guys run away when they see a needle."

"Didn't have a choice when I broke my hand," Kevin says as Clara places a band aid on his arm. "Will I hear about the other players' health?"

She lifts one eyebrow, scribbling on the vials and placing them in the fridge. "Sure, you can come here tomorrow before training and we can go over it… I'll make sure to have a technical meeting sometime soon. Teddy will have a few things to say and then we can all think about something. You're free to go, wash away that gym stench and go eat something. Someone said Baker made his famous chicken tikka masala."

Kevin bids her goodbye and goes on his way to the showers. Luckily for him, he's the last one there. He turns on the lukewarm water and shoves his dirty clothes aside. The water feels a bit too cold for his taste but his sore muscles enjoy the cooldown. He closes his eyes, musing on what his life has become, and the differences between the Black Jackets and the Ravens. The camaraderie is one of them, and Kevin found himself enjoying the banter and the laughter; the easy way the coaches and staff adjust to him, talk to him is different; for once he feels like a human being instead of a trophy to be paraded around. 

He is halfway through soaping his body when the door opens. Kevin doesn't want to see who it is, but he has to. Slowly he opens his eyes to find Aaron Minyard on the edge of the showers, holding a towel in front of his body in a semblance of modesty. 

Another glaring difference is the way privacy is held in some high standard by some players. In the Nest there was no shame to be placed on their bodies, players and coaches alike would criticize him, tell him to put less weight here, more weight there. And mainly, they would ignore the bruises and scars across his body.

Aaron doesn't seem to do the same. He takes a long sweep at Kevin's torso: from the thin scar across his clavicles to the darkened gash that runs from the inside of his thigh to his groin, he doesn't linger on the small cuts Riko made exactly where the armor met his body, or the scars across his back. Kevin feels like an insect, pinned and dissected by a scientist's careful gaze. He swallows hard, clenching his fingers around the bar of soap. "Have something to say?" Kevin asks and Aaron shakes his head like a dog, dispelling his thoughts and stepping into his equally warm shower. He's almost done, so Kevin rinses his hair and wraps the towel around himself with a perfunctory sweep of his body. Kevin steps closer to Aaron, standing only a few feet away from him. "Not a word about this."

Aaron lifts his eyebrows, the startled expression crossing his face and disappearing in a flash. "And when the others see it?"

"I'll make sure they don't." Kevin keeps on striding, stopping in the foyer to put the dirty clothes in his hamper, then dressing quickly in the team's loose shirt and track pants. He zips up a windbreaker, feeling like he needs as many layers between himself and everyone else's stare as he can muster. After his shoes are laced up, Kevin makes his way towards the cafeteria, where an enthusiastic Luke waves for him to join the offensive part of the team at one of the long tables. He picks up a serving of chicken tikka masala and salad and smiles at Baker when he thrusts a glass of juice on his tray. 

Luke and the other strikers are a good distraction; they keep him occupied as Aaron walks into the cafeteria. Kevin can feel his stare burning into the back of his neck as he moves, and he doesn't know how he can hear Aaron’s voice under the mayhem of his coworkers, but it feels like he's attuned to Aaron's soft voice _yes, thank you, hello Frederick._ Kevin practically inhales the rest of his food, crossing his fork and knife when he's done and picks up his plate as he excuses himself. Luke grumbles - all in good nature - about how his new assistant coach is obsessed with work. 

Kevin doesn't mind the words, he likes being known as a reliable workaholic. His gut tells him that the Black Jackets will listen to him better than his former team did. He takes a deep breath once the latch of the door clicks and he's alone in the office, with Sanders still occupied with his lunch, he has maybe half an hour of solitude to think. 

_Aaron_. A promise and a threat at the same time. He's seen the tapes of his games time and time again, the potential that wasn't properly curated during his college years. The threat of someone who knows the Raven’s secrets and is not afraid to spill them. 

After Jean left the Ravens there were rumours going around between players and coaches alike in the NCCA Exy. They all wondered why the Raven’s had let their best backliner walk away to the Trojans without contesting anything, all sorts of whispered allegations started to spread - hazing? Riko's ego? That Jean only stayed at the Nest because he was desperate for nonexistent validation from his family in France? Those were the truthful ones, whispered between players. The tabloids had other ideas, spinning a tale about Jean's numerous injuries and a fake addiction to opioids. 

Jeremy answered all of the rumors with a tight lipped smile, refusing the claim Jean was an addict, going as far as public showing his blood work. 

Aaron is unafraid to tell his team the truth, yet Kevin thinks most of them are low enough in the pecking order of Exy to really know the truth or believe in Aaron's words. On the contrary, all of them seem blinded by the Ravens' shine and effectiveness. 

Kevin runs his hand over his face, feeling the ever present tremors on his permanently injured fingers. He tries to center himself, breathes in and out, flexes his fingers and goes over the notes he first scribbled in Sanders' living room. He reads them over and over again, until they're burned in his mind. And, for the lack of things to do, he plays a few clips on youtube, doodling plays on a notebook. 

"I swear boy, one day I'll open the door and meet Kayleigh in your chair," Sanders says with a long suffering sigh, as he walks over and lowers himself into his own chair. "Why are you so much like her?"

"Geneticists may be able to explain it." Kevin says with a careless shrug of his shoulders, and Sanders laughs at him, his long fingers resting over his full belly. "...Was she a workaholic?"

The man nods, patting the arms of his chair with a laugh. "She was the worst. Before you came, she would be doing the same as you. Sometimes she would eat in her office." 

"How do you know her so much?" Kevin asks and Sanders smiles, looking up at the picture of him and his mother that hangs on the wall behind them.

"I used to call her coach." Sanders smiles, twirling a pen between his fingers. "She was… Kayleigh, boy. Kayleigh Day." Kevin watches him shake his head, then close his eyes and lean back on his chair. "Take a nap, the afternoon will be hard."

Kevin nods, lowering the volume of the computer and letting the lull of an exy commenter make his body lax. "How do you want me today? Anything you want me to focus on?"

"Hm, what do you think you should focus on?"

"Offense." Kevin says without thinking twice, not only because the offense does need work, but because the offense _calls_ to him. It's an old siren song he feels down to his bones. Sanders only hums in response, then snores softly. Kevin chuckles a bit, setting an alarm for one hour and then closing his eyes. 

He's not in the habit of napping, but something about the quiet lull of a game, coupled with the lowlights of the office and Sanders' snores helps his body relax into a dreamless state. They're woken exactly five minutes before his alarm by Baker coming in with two steamy mugs of coffee. "Rise and shine, my beauties," he says with a grin, placing the mugs in front of each coach "The boys are already gearing up and waiting for you. Should I prepare some snacks?" Sanders groans, cracking his neck and stretching his back before answering Baker with a click of his tongue.

"Stop spoiling them, Malcolm." Then with a crooked smile he says: "although Cuban sandwiches and sports drinks are an amazing combination." Malcolm leaves the office laughing like a madman and that’s their cue to get up and follow the brightly lit hallways to the court. 

When Kevin first looked at the Black Jackets Court, he didn't see much, just your regular plexiglas walls and vents, but now it hits him with a completely different feeling. The lights of the arena bathe the black and gold seats, making them illuminate the whole place with their reflective plastic surfaces. The court looks way more beautiful when bathed under the lights, echoing the sound of balls rebounding on the walls. Fortin, Miller and Perez are already out, watching their own teams practice drills from behind the safety of plexiglas. He nods at Sanders, abandoning the left side of the field where the defense works and rounding up to stay by Miller's side. 

Kevin brings up his notebook and starts to write, focusing on everything that's going on with the drills in the offense until Sanders blows his whistle hard. "Alright, time for scrimmage!" The team scrambles in position as Sanders sorts them and the coaches come together. Miller smiles at him, peering at his notebook. 

"....That's a lot of notes."

"I told them they wouldn't like me," Kevin says, crossing his arms and watching the game unfold. The subs sit on the bench, and from the burning spot on his back, Aaron is among them. He takes in maybe twenty minutes of the game before he's banging his fist so hard against the plastic walls that someone behind him swears. " _Stop right now!_ " The players freeze mid-motion as Sanders unlocks the door and allows Kevin in. "Defense, take a break, except you Harriet, I'll need your help. Offense. Miller. Sanders. Subs. With me."

Kevin watches patiently as the coaching staff lines up and he places the ball in Luke's racquet. "Cox, take position and try to score. Harriet, do your best to stop him." The players nod and he steps back behind the plexiglas. 

Sanders nudges him on the side, one eyebrow raised as Luke misses the goal, and Kevin orders him to do it again. 

And again.

And again. 

Until Luke groans and throws his hand up in the air. "Fuck you Day! Is your goal to humiliate me on the first day back at work?" Kevin shakes his head, signaling for Sanders to open the court again so he can step inside. "You are an asshole, is that what you want?"

Kevin looks at Luke, and inhales the smell of sweat and adrenaline that's pouring out of him. "What's your biggest weakness, Luke?"

"What?" 

He watches as the man's breath speeds up."What is your biggest weakness? As a player, if there's something you think you should improve on, what would that be?" Kevin asks calmly, watching the fury pour out of his team's captain. Luke scoffs and turns around, unclasping his head gear. 

"Fuck you Day, fuck you." Luke takes a few steps ahead to leave the court, but Kevin spreads his left arm, placing his scarred hand on the center of the strike's chest.

"When I still played, my biggest flaw was my height. I wasn't good enough in counter attacks because I'm not compact, therefore Moriyama could run faster than me." Kevin says simply, his mouth ticking downwards as he takes a short stroll down the memory lane of all the times Tetsuji forced him to run faster, told him his height made him useless. "So you have to adapt. Be creative. Now, I shared mine, you share yours."

Luke swallows his own anger, his eyes downcast as Kevin holds him in place with the tip of his fingers. "My aim."

"And your biggest strength?"

"I'm good at thinking quickly."

Kevin hums, motioning for the goalie to come in. "Let's do another experiment. I am in no way trying to humiliate you, but I'm using you, team captain, as a north star for the team, okay?" He says it calmly, restrapping the helmet on Luke's head. "Try to score a goal, then I'll tell you what to do. You have five shots. Harriet will try her best to hold you out."

He steps off the court, and stands just behind the locked plexiglass door. Luke tries again, and gets one goal in, then two stopped by Harriet, one missed, one stopped. "Tell me where did I go wrong? Is it my footwork?"

Sanders opens the door again and Kevin motions for a backliner to join him. "Your racquet," he says simply, picking one stray ball and rolling it between his fingers. "If your aim is not good - and I'd add that you telegraph your moves too much - then we need to change strategies," Kevin says, throwing the ball in the air and catching it. "When you use a light racquet, as all of you must know, it means you can run faster. A medium will help with the balance. A heavy is a challenge." He hums, placing the ball in Luke's net. "But watch: hit the wall with the ball, and pick it back up, please."

Kevin takes a few steps back, watching the ball rebound on the wall and fall short of Luke's net. The man lifts one eyebrow and Kevin steps closer to him, one of his hands squeezing his bicep. "With a light, you end up using too much force for a play like that… Nilsson, may I have your racquet?" Kevin asks, picking up another ball and trading the racquets with Luke. "Try now. Take your time." He steps back, watching Luke get familiar with the new racquet with some longing. Heavy racquets were his first love; he still remembers the power behind each play during his first year on the Court.

Luke finally takes a shot and the ball hits the plexiglas and rebounds to the other end of the court, and Luke has to move his head out of the trajectory of the ball "What. The. FUCK." He turns around, lifting Kevin by the waist in a bear hug. "This was awesome!"

By his side, Miller gives a grunt. "That will slow him down."

"Yes," Kevin says once he's been released from Luke’s grip . "But Luke is not an agility player, he's a heavy player. If he can use the wall to his favor he can score way more." He shrugs, picks up his notebook and crosses the first item on it.

"He needs to have speed," Miller repeats and Kevin dismisses him with a wave of his hand. 

Luke looks between Kevin and Miller, his stare going between hopeful and hopeless. "Yeah… I mean Jeremy and Oliver always ha-"

Kevin snaps his fingers twice in front of Luke's face, effectively shutting him up mid-sentence. "Are you Jeremy Knox? Oliver Hilley? No. You're Luke Cox," he says harshly, holding the clipboard with his good hand while his left fingers shake. "If you stop trying to be like them and start to be you, then things will improve. The racquet? A suggestion. You'd have two months to get used to it, build up muscles and learn how to get your speed with it. But feel free to not change it up." He raises an eyebrow and turns around, leaving the blustering people on the court and seats on the bench, and tries to ignore Luke and Miller arguing. 

Sanders squeezes his shoulders with a heavy hand. "We still need to work on your people skills," he says with a laugh, then claps his hands so the players can return to the court. Judging by the frown on Miller's face, Luke is switching to a heavy. 

"You know he will have to learn how to deal with the racquet, " Miller says, dragging a tired hand over his blond beard. 

Kevin chances a smile toward the other coach. "And I absolutely trust you know how to coach him to improve his plays." Miller scoffs and shakes his head, muttering something inaudible under his breath. He's almost sure he will be left alone for the remainder of training today, but someone is restless a few feet away from him and Kevin feels an inkling of annoyance flare when Aaron shows up in his peripheral vision. 

"Not Jeremy Knox or Oliver Hilley," Aaron's voice is laced with scorn and Kevin forces his eyes not to roll, focusing instead on the plays happening on the court. "But Kevin Day, uh? You want him to make another you? Another perfect player? Part of the Perfect Court." 

Kevin stays in silence for a while, his eyes tracking the ball and drawing plays on an empty sheet. "The Perfect Court was Riko's, not mine," he answers, creating lines between the x and o's. 

"Wonder what your review of me will be, Mr. Second Most Perfect Player?" Aaron goads him and finally Kevin drags his stare from the players to Aaron's passive face. He holds the backliner's stare for a bit longer than necessary. 

"If you're so eager I can give it to you now? My predictions: you have a blindspot on your left side the size of a moon crater and you were lucky Boyd used to cover it up for you. You also rely too much on your brother to put the plays forward, and, from what I see,” Kevin gestures at the court with a tilt of his head, “he's not here. You can do good, but only if you stop antagonizing people."

"That's rich coming from you," Aaron says with a scoff. Kevin shrugs in response, focusing back on the game. 

"My job here is to point out flaws and find out how to fix them. Your job here is to play," Kevin finally says, and then ignores Aaron for the rest of the training. He watches him carefully though, and a smile pulls his lips up when Aaron predictably struggles to pay attention to his blindspot. The practice comes to an end and Kevin gathers around with the team as Sanders and the other coaches give their notes. He stays quiet though, mulling his machinations, trying to figure out how he can communicate that this team sucks. 

Sanders dismisses them all with a smile and follows Kevin into his car. "Kevin," he calls softly, drumming his fingers on the roof of the car. "What is your problem with Minyard?"

"None." Kevin shrugs, then copies Sanders' stance to look at him over the metallic gleam of his car. "He's just confrontational like his brother and probably has a beef with Ravens." Sanders lifts one eyebrow.

"He had some pretty heavy accusations yesterday," Kevin lifts one eyebrow, drumming his fingers against the roof of the car, back at Sanders, "which you did not deny. I told you I'm…"

"It's getting late," Kevin says finally, getting into the car and starting it, only this time he has no energy to change the tape on the cassette player, or even hit play. He doesn't want to spoil his mother's memory with the Ravens' cruelty. Sanders frowns at him but Kevin is dry of any type of energy that might have pushed a lie from his lips. He drops Sanders in front of the apartment after their first uncomfortably silent car ride and his coach sighs, holding on to the doorframe.

"You know, you can trust me," Sanders says softly and Kevin nods back at him, his hands flexing on the wheel. "If you need to talk, I’m here."

Kevin finally breaks, a tremor wrecking his body as Sanders watches him. "I will. When I'm ready." 

The man nods and Kevin accelerates to get home, he'll probably get a speeding ticket, but the speed makes him feel something other than pain. He stops at a red light, opens the glove compartment and picks up the map he bought when he got to Ohio. He feels like driving with no direction, but instead he sets his eyes on a town 74 miles away and speeds down the highway. 

He'd been stagnant at the Nest, sedentary on Sanders' sofa- and that is not what he wants; Kevin spent a lifetime perched on a bench, caged, forced to be Riko's canary. He would choke and die while his brother was free to go back and restart. 

But now the cage is open, and even if he's a bird with a broken wing, he can still hop from place to place. He will find a way. He will learn how to be human again. 

It's a one hour ride from Cleveland to Youngstown, and Kevin appreciates the change in the scenery: long gone are the bridges and bright buildings of his new city, replaced by more modest brown buildings and skyscrapers. He feels at ease, his thunderous heartbeat slowing down and replaced by a steady pulse. Kevin stops by a pawn shop, and buys a camera and a memory card before he starts the car again. The further he drives, the worse the city looks. 

Youngstown was a promising jewel before WWII, full of immigrants looking for a chance to settle, in a city where steel production needed workers. When the need for steel declined, so did the city. He stops the car in front of an empty building and picks up his camera. He takes an experimental picture of the decrepit architecture and looks at the screen. 

It's not good.

It's blurry, too dark.

But, weirdly enough, Kevin likes it. He enjoys the lack of experience. The chance to be free and try whatever his brain tells him to. The leaves crunch under his feet as he walks, the pavement glistens under the orange hues of the few streetlights, and Kevin captures everything. The people hurrying up, the crumbling buildings, scared cats passing him by. 

Every shot is imperfect, but perfect in Kevin's view. He's somewhere else, away from the ghosts of Riko's cruelty, away from pressure to be the heir of exy. He has Cleveland to find himself, but choses Youngstown to lose himself. There's a record playing somewhere, and people sing along to the soft piano keys. 

_I will be made a new creature, one bright day._

Kevin stops on an empty corner and turns the camera towards himself, snapping a shot of his own face. On the display he looks tired; pale and gaunt as if he's been feeding a sickness inside him. And he supposes that's the truth, he's been feeding the voice in the back of his head more often than not- his mom's tapes helped starving the need to return to who he was at the Nest, but deep down he knows he's always yearning for it, chasing the high of the Court through other peoples’ bodies. The number two tattooed on his face looks awful, old and faded, more green than black in the tattoo.

It's a moment of clarity, standing in a half abandoned town and staring at the lines of his own face as his mind spins and asks him _who are you_?

He takes a step forward, one foot after the other, and he walks with no direction, under street lamps and past shops, passing by people he will never see again. 

Who is Kevin Day? Of course, _exy player_ is the first thing that comes to mind. But there has been too much _exy_ and not enough _player_ for quite some time. 

_Kayleigh's son_. That's a good definition, Sanders never stops drawing parallels between them and he is always staring at the way his mom's eyes are the same shade of green as his. 

_Assistant coach_ , he muses. Official title. Doesn't define much. 

Kevin steps into a thrift shop, running his fingers over the racks of clothes that were once loved. 

_Thrift person_. His mind says and he toys with the idea. It fits him well: he was once loved, by his mother, by the public, by his team; but now he hangs somewhere, waiting to see if someone else will give him value or if he’ll face the ultimate demise. Kevin stops by the sports gear and there, in red and blue, is his Court jersey- it sends a shiver down his spine and he shudders involuntarily, clenching his left fist. 

_Number two, Kevin Day_. Second best, a lie he cultivated because it was a lie that kept him alive. As long as he was second best, Riko would leave him alone. In the end, that proved to be a lie too. 

Kevin rummages his pockets, finds his credit card and buys the uniform, along with a second-hand coat, a pair of comfortable purple velour pants and a book on Greek history. Once upon a time, he had entertained the thought of getting a degree in history - it might be cheesy, but Kevin was always fascinated by it. Evolution of society. Plato. Socrates. Trojans. Tales of old that keep on living. He strolls back to his car, throws his purchase in the trunk and starts making his way back to Cleveland. He is still not in the mood for one of his mom's tapes; it feels like there's something else sticking to his skin like glue that won't leave him alone, he just can’t pinpoint what it is. 

He gets home way past midnight, the tiny silent apartment greeting him with it's coziness. But something still feels amiss, like someone titled the world to one side. Kevin falls into bed and looks at the ceiling, his mind spinning slowly. He closes his eyes and falls asleep.

The sticky feeling follows him into his dreams. It's a tar pit of Riko's words and his laugh, his voice mocking him.

_Nothing. That's what you are._

It's Riko's answer, whispered in the dead of night, that makes Kevin wake and sit on the edge of his bed. His left hand pulses, the pain radiating from scar to finger tips, and all the way down his wrist. It takes Kevin a few unsteady heartbeats to calm down: he looks around the room: his mother's picture hanging on the wall smiles at him; the old cassette player invites him for just one song; the bottle of vodka invites him for just one drink. And that's what he wants, to pick up the bottle and finish it in record time, to get so drunk he won't remember the pain of all the scars across his body. 

Kevin runs his hand over the smooth covers of his bed and pulls them over his head, creating a protective cocoon against the shadows on the wall. He doesn't sleep the rest of the night. Instead, Kevin gives in to the old aches, traces the scars over his torso with a fingertip, pokes the ribs broken and mended so many times and, finally, faces the damage on his left hand.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aaron hums, his long fingers reaching out to touch one particularly sore spot on the scar of his left hand. "I wonder how much truth about you Josten gave us."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> once again I must thank my taste tester [phantom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/passive_phantom/pseuds/passive_phantom) and my amazing betas [Jenn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RainbowObsidian/pseuds/RainbowObsidian) and [Coop](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentCoop/pseuds/AgentCoop) for helping me ❤❤❤❤❤ and everyone who kudo'ed and commented ❤❤❤

The morning comes with a torrential downpour and Kevin wants to laugh. Somehow nature is his only ally, giving him as much as gloominess as he needs. Kevin looks in the mirror and sees the rings under his eyes, scratches the tattoo until it's a red patch of skin, then brushes his teeth in the shower, just because that will save him time. 

For the first time in a long while, Kevin shrugs back into his persona. He picks Sanders with a convincing smile, goes through arm day with the strikers, and waits until they all fill out of the locker room to take a shower—this time the excuse is that he's waiting for a call. 

But Aaron is waiting for him, his hair matted with sweat as he stares at the door of the showers. Kevin doesn't pay him attention, showering quickly whereas Aaron seems keen on taking his time. "You look like shit." Aaron says out of nowhere and Kevin stares at him. His skin is pale, unblemished by scars. So unlike the white landmarks of old wounds that cover Kevin's olive skin. 

"I appreciate your input." Kevin says, shutting off the shower and wrapping himself in his towel. "You were favoring your left leg yesterday. Stretch properly." He turns around, getting dressed and walking into the cafeteria where, just like yesterday, Luke waves his hand enthusiastically. Today's lunch is baked potatoes with salad and tuna, not Kevin's favorite, but Baker's cooking is divine so he’ll endure it. 

"Man, Miller is _pissed_ at you and the whole racquet thing," Luke says. He squeezes two packets of mayo on the salad and Kevin cringes. "Says it will take me a while, and if I go for a different weight, then it should be a medium."

Kevin waves his hand, spearing a few leaves of cabbage with his fork and chewing it slowly. "Then it will be futile. If we had more time, it would be good to have a gradative change, but it's all or nothing. You're either in or out." 

Luke nods, mashing his potatoes and mixing up with the rest of his food.It looks like the bland healthy protein mash they got fed at the Nest and it makes Kevin's stomach churn uncomfortably. 

"Tips for it?" Luke asks as Kevin cuts a small piece of tuna and chews it pensively. "You must have some secret!"

"Your wrists will hurt, try not to lean too much on them when you play. Use your shoulders." He cuts up a piece of potato. "While we're at it. Donahue?" 

The other striker in the team lifts his head, a piece of kale stuck between her lips.

"Lower your stance a bit when you try to score. If you can find a better balance it will make your shots more precise." 

Donahue rolls her blue eyes, sticking a huge serving of potato in her mouth. "Aye, aye coach, Miller has been talking about it. No change of racquets for me?"

Kevin shakes his head, reaching out for the salt. "Not everyone needs more power. If anything, I'd look for an even lighter racquet for you. You'd be faster if Harriet could send you the ball." The woman in question perks up from the table beside them.

"I think we'll need a whole week to try plays from the famous Kevin Day." Luke says, squeezing Kevin's shoulder. "I remember that pass between you and Jean. Fuck, your first day on the US Court and you guys scored an _epic_ point against Italy."

Kevin smiles, and in his head he can see that moment—the fraction of a second where Jean decided that Kevin, not Riko, was the smartest choice to receive the ball. He remembers the smile they’d shared across the court while Riko fumed. That should have been a glory shot for him. Instead, all the commenters talked about for weeks was the pure synergy between Day and Moreau.

They paid for that. Kevin had to patch up a gash between Jean's ribs while Jean pressed a pack of ice against Kevin's left eye. 

"Thank you, but that was all on Jean." Kevin says with a sigh as the others look at him with nothing but admiration. Once the food is gone, he bypasses his own office. For the first time in a long while, he steps into the equipment room and takes a look at the racquets, organized by players and weight. His eyes get lost as he tests each net and inspects the racquets for defects. They're all perfect, as expected. 

And his palms itch. He picks up Harriet's heavy racquet and twirls it in his hands. Kevin's racquet was almost like hers, except for the twin red stripes on the bottom. Number two. Riko's had one. Jean's three. He feels like Josten's had four. 

The Perfect Court in the making. 

Except Jean found a home with the Trojans. Josten refused Riko. Kevin is a broken toy. And Riko sits alone in his throne, number one striker on the pros. 

Kevin looks at his fingers. The perfect grip of his right hand is a mockery of the disability on his left. He forces them to close as best he can and takes a deep breath when he twirls the racquet inelegantly. Once, he almost fooled himself that he could play again. He closed his eyes and imagined a different self: dressed in orange, holding the racquet with his left hand, standing against Riko. 

He knows better now not to dwell in that dream. 

Kevin places the racquet back in its support and cuts his daydream short. When he turns around there's someone leaning against the door. 

Of course it's Minyard, his arms crossed across his chest and hazel eyes focused on Kevin's left hand. 

"Go ahead and tell me your theory," Kevin says bitterly, offering Aaron his left hand. "Take a closer look if you want. You've seen the others."

Aaron steps ahead slowly, his every move calculated as he stops with two feet between them. His fingers are cold, calloused with all the years of playing exy. "...I don't need theories," Aaron hums, flexing each finger and testing their range of motion. "Josten never told us, but it seems like Riko let the truth escape. Neil would get a faraway look every time he saw you on the bench. As if someone had cut him open and rearranged his insides." Kevin doesn't respond, watching Aaron move his fingers around with the same delicate touch the doctors would give him. "One day the truth will come out." 

Aaron's fingers slip away from his and Kevin stares him deep in the golden eyes that almost seem to shine in the dark. "When I'm dead."

"This blind loyalty favors no one," he whispers.

"Blind loyalty kept me alive." Kevin answers, clenching his fingers as Aaron still stares at his injured hand.

"You're free."

Kevin scoffs. "There are things more important than freedom. I plan to stay alive."

Aaron lifts one eyebrow, his arms going back to their regular crossed stance across his chest. "They can't kill you. You're the heir of exy. You're too important to die… plus that would raise suspicions. Two Days dead?"

"There are more ways to kill a man than to take their life. Trust me. I know." He walks away, leaving Aaron to the silence of the racquets. 

Kevin is already on the court when the team pours in, and Sanders makes a beeline for him, squeezing his shoulder as usual. He doesn't like how his coach seems to know where something bothers him, or maybe he's still hanging on their last conversation. Regardless, Sanders squeezes Kevin's shoulder once more. 

"I tried to call you yesterday. It said the number no longer exists."

Kevin shoves a hand into his pocket and unlocks the screen of his phone- it is still the black model all the Ravens got, even the lockscreen and homescreen are still the black and red raven from Edgar Allen. He squints at it, pulls down the menu and sees that the icon for the reception shows the _no SIM CARD_ warning and Kevin sighs. "Sorry, I'll get a new number today." 

Sanders looks at him like he wants to say something, maybe commenting on the tactlessness of the Ravens disconnecting him, but he clicks his mouth shut and turns around to stare at the players stretching on the court. "Focus on defense today, will you? Fortin was impressed with your trick yesterday and is looking forward to your input. If you need to use the wifi, the password is barracuda."

Kevin murmurs a quick thank you, then connects the phone. It may be foolish of him, but he was waiting for someone to send him a message, hoping that maybe one of the Ravens still held some respect or semblance of affection for him, but nothing comes up and Kevin feels like smashing the screen. Instead he opens the browser and selects an innocuous image of blue paint splashes and sets it as his wallpaper a bit before Fortin sits by his side and gives him a smile.

Working with defense is easier: Fortin is way more flexible than Miller, he appreciates what Kevin has to say and questions him over and over. They watch the backliners and dealers struggle with the ferocity of a bigger team and join their heads on the clipboard, drawing overlapping blue and red lines as they prepare plays. 

"Fuck kid, you have an eye for this."

Kevin shrugs, redrawing a play that he knows that would be too difficult to accomplish without a reliable goalie and re-routed it to focus on the dealers. "I was a striker. This is what I saw on a daily basis… I think it's easier to get an understanding when you are on the other side." 

Fortin nods at him and commands the defense to try a play. It works like magic. "That's what I’m talking about. Think we can use it against Wisconsin?" Fortin asks, watching the game pick up from the center of the court.

Kevin gives him a noncommittal hum. "No, Villanueva would thwart Landry very easily. If they put Teller we might be able to do that." Kevin drums his pen against the clipboard in a quick staccato, biting his lips as he runs through the games he’s seen from the other teams. "But, if Sanders agrees, it's a good play against Alabama. Their defense is perfect for trying something like that, as long as they have Caroll as a dealer. She's a bit too slow and has a good reach but—"

"If we put Minyard to make the ball go forward it won't be in her reach and she’ll have to do some gymnastics to stop the ball." Fortin finishes and Kevin finds himself smiling at the man. "Fuck, you're brilliant."

Kevin shrugs, his eyes only leaving the ball to draw something on his board. "Tell Jones to watch out for the rebound from Slay. He's getting a bit too distracted. Anyways," he taps the clipboard again, signaling for Sanders to join them. "This would be a tricky but good play for a comeback."

Sanders waves Miller over and the four of them pour over the plays as the players take a break for water. "This looks very good Kevin… it's the sort of fresh take on our team that I was hoping for."

Blushing, Kevin tucks a stray piece of hair behind his ear. "Thank you coach I—"

"No modesty. I want bold plays, we have two months to rehearse them…" Sanders smiles and ruffles it with a grin, uncaring of Kevin's near perfect combed back hair. "You're going to make history, Kevin."

Kevin feels himself go silent, then nods. The praise feels foreign to him. 

The Master had praise to spare for Riko, but no one else. Kevin grew up with the constant negative reinforcement of being called second best, a shadow of his mom's talent. But here he is: making his own plays known. It’s weird to see the proud glint on Sander's eyes, the excited upward tick of Fortin's mouth and even the furrow of Miller's brow as he looks over and over the play. To be held in this standard is…

Exhilarating. 

Makes Kevin's heart beat faster, forces his legs to move as he joins the rest of the team in court and explains his play. It doesn't go _that_ well on the first time, nor the second, but it's enough for him and the other coaches to pick what's wrong and _finally_ see the execution leading to a goal. They all stand in suspended silence for a handful of seconds before the screaming erupts and Kevin finds himself being hugged every which way. 

Kevin leaves the court feeling satisfied for the first time in a long while. "You'll take us far." Sanders says, pressing play on the car's cassette player. Elton John croons softly in the background and Kevin drives Sanders to his apartment and leaves his coach with a smile. 

"Get yourself a new number, I'll be waiting for it tomorrow." 

Kevin nods and watches Sanders hum under his breath until he reaches his door and disappears. Then he points the car to the direction of I-77 and drives as fast as he can, the mixed songs in the cassette following his journey as he drums his fingers against the wheel. 

There's something strumming under his skin when he arrives at the heart of Youngstown. Kevin parks the car and buys himself a new SIM card, writing his number on a loose sheet of paper he found in his car before he heads to the darker parts of the city and parks in front of one run down house. He keeps the headlights low, enjoying the silence and isolation as he goes through his contacts:

Leverett   
Rudolph  
Ryan

He selects the Ravens name one by one, then with a trembling finger he presses the trashcan icon.

_Are you sure you want to delete those numbers?_

Fuck yes, Kevin is sure. The only numbers left are Sanders' and Jean's. It feels absolutely lonely, to look at his contact list and see only two names; but at the same time it feels...safe. He presses Jean's name and hits the tiny telephone icon. The phone rings once, twice and the line picks up. No one answers on the other side and Kevin feels his palms sweat. "Jean?"

There's a long sigh on the other side as Jean's voice fills his ear. "Kevin," he says, impossibly soft. They wait on another beat of silence before they start laughing like madmen. It feels especially good to listen to Jean's voice, soft and syrupy in French as he relays news from his team in San Francisco and Kevin tells him all about his small Ohio team in return. They talk for hours, until the darkness consumes Kevin and the only sound other than Jean's voice are the soft chirping of crickets in the abandoned house. 

When Kevin hangs up, throat dry but sated as if he just indulged in a feast, the phone tells him his call lasted three hours.

Three hours on the phone with Jean, with no interference of Riko. 

He drives home a little lighter and curls himself around his blankets, there are sparks on his body- _freedom_ , Aaron said a few hours ago. Freedom tastes good. 

It's a common theme in the following week: Kevin gives his best, smiles through the exercises and works with Luke on his new racquet. There are things to be fixed, he must work the defense until they're a solid line and not falling back at each attack; he rallies the offense forward, stokes the hunger in their bellies with each request for more. Freedom seems to awake hunger, infests his teammates and spreads like a wildfire. He watches day after day as they leave the court drenched in sweat and weary down to their bones. 

Some of the players swear at him, others hug him. 

And that's the worst. 

Even though he thought himself past wishing to join them, the acrid smell of sweat seems to always push a switch up in his brain. At first, the lamp that illuminates the forgotten corner of his memory flickers and goes out, but repetition breeds desire and Kevin feels himself spiraling out of control. He starts to keep a distance when an overenthusiastic Luke comes out of the court to lean on him. His smile gets frail. He stops going to Youngstown. 

On a Friday, the lamp is a bright light cannon, shining on him only and making him burn. Kevin can't stand the smell of sweat on Luke or the sound of racquets clacking in the court. He forces a smile upon his face and sits on his hand to contain the jitters that run through his fingers. As usual, Sanders looks at him with too much recognition for Kevin to feel safe, so he chances a timid smile when they reconvene on his car for their ride back. 

"Your head was not in the game." Sanders doesn't fuck around anymore and Kevin appreciates the brutal honesty. "I'm not going to tell you what you already know, I think I told you enough times that I will lend an ear when you need it."

Kevin nods, starting the car and skipping the cassette tape there. He's not in the mood to listen to his mom's songs. "One day," he says, committing to letting the words out of his mouth, even though it feels like a death sentence. 

"Not one day, Kevin. Now." Sanders presses, his fingers tightening the grip on the dashboard. "I made this mistake with your mother."

Kevin releases a long suffering sigh. He's tired of the comparisons with his mother."Don't talk about her." He pleads, barely stopping the car on the red light. Both he and Sanders lurch on their seats as the drivers around them honk. "Please. Don't talk about her."

"How can I not talk about her when you look the same?" Sanders is frustrated, messing his hair, clicking his tongue loudly. "Last time I saw that look was also the last time I saw your mother and I refuse to lose you to the same thing that was consuming her!" 

Kevin flinches, starting the car again and driving slower, trying to rein in his frantic heart. 

"You want to know the truth? Or at least what I think of it? I think Tetsuji broke you because he was unable to break your mother! I think he fucked you over time and time again! Fuck him!" Sanders is screaming in his car and Kevin wants to let go of the wheel and plug his ears, press the foot on the gas harder and pray to meet a tree. "FUCK HIM!" 

That's when they stop, Kevin doesn't know how he got to the front of Sanders' apartment without a crash. "Kevin,"

"Please no." 

"Out of the car. _Now_." Sanders orders and like the good soldier he is, Kevin gets out, opens the door for his coach. He's not ready to feel Sanders' arms around him. He doesn't think someone other than his mother ever held him with such ferocity. "Not one day, Kevin. Please. Don't… Don't go through it alone."

Kevin doesn't move, squeezed by Sanders as the wind blows past them. "I'm-" he tries, then swallows the bile that rises from his stomach. "I'm not alone." Kevin manages to say, and Sanders squeezes him harder. "I was. Alone. Maybe. I had Jean." He stammers, something unraveling in his throat. 

"I have you." Sanders pulls away enough to stare Kevin in the eye. "Talk to me."

"I miss it." He says simply, his left hand spasming by his side. "I miss it. I miss it everyday and sometimes it is hard to... To be." 

Sanders nods, and even though he thinks his words don't make sense, the brown eyes staring back at him are gentle. 

"To not be. It's the sound. The smell. The yearning."

"Boy," Sanders drags a hand over his face, the callous catching on Kevin's stubble. "You shouldn't be sitting on the sidelines. You fucking should be out there. Fucking skiing."

Kevin feels the words dancing on his mouth, begging to come out, fizzling like tiny bubbles on the tip of his tongue: _it wasn't an accident it wasn't an accident it was-_

"I need to learn how to deal with that. Sorry." It's what comes out of his mouth instead, some old ingrained obedience holds the words inside, chains them to the loyalty and fear of Tetsuji Moriyama. 

"Don't be sorry. Talk to me." Sanders pats his face twice and smiles at him. "I'm here okay?"

"Thank you coach."

"Go home and get some sleep." 

Sleep is the last thing on his mind, but he nods at Sanders before he points his car to Youngstown. He needs that, the silence, the solitude. 

But he stops halfway through I-480, watching a truck go by. His brain short circuits with Sanders' words. The words he didn't dare to utter. _You shouldn't be sitting on the sidelines_. It echoes in the dark enclosed space of his car and makes Kevin do an illegal turn and speed down the road like a maniac. He shouldn't be walking alone in Youngstown. He shouldn't be doing so many things, but most of all, he shouldn't keep feeling sorry for himself. 

He has two hands after all. 

Kevin parks his car on the stadium parking lot, grabbing the set of keys from the glove compartment and the DAY 02 shirt he bought. The keys jingle and clink in the darkness as he unlocks the door. There's no one there to witness him chucking his clothes to the side of a bench and digging around the spare equipment of his team. Kevin is able to find enough protective armor for himself- the motions feel familiar and yet foreign, as if he's not sure at the same time he's never been surer all his life. He fills a bucket with balls and holds Luke's racquet in his right hand. It feels heavier than it had ever been. It feels wrong.

He stops by the plexiglas, pressing his forehead against the acrylic as he takes a shuddering breath. He's tipping on the edge of a precipice, wearing a shirt that was never his, mismatched armor and a stolen racquet. Nothing is his. Nothing except his courage. 

Kevin unlocks the door and walks in. 

There's a ritual there: set up the cones, spread apart exactly one feet; twirl the racquet, now on this right hand; look at the goal as if it's his only enemy. Kevin takes one breath, shakes his shoulders and picks up a ball. 

The first throw is way off; he doesn't know how to work with his right hand, the angle isn't right but he tries again.

And again.

Until a cone topples over and Kevin feels his body thrum with each play- successful or not, he knows what to look for. He was always his own biggest critic, the one who would tell himself where to change, how to do it. And Kevin tries until he's able to hit all the eight cones. His shoulders hurt, his left hand throbs. It feels like his muscles forgot how to play, but his mind never did. There's a disconnect: four years of inactivity took a toll in the link between his mind and body, and while the latter was shaped by constant exercise, it was not the same as his prime.

By the end of the night, Kevin is breathing hard, his heart thumping against his ribcage as he sprawls on the center of the Court. But still his mind offers him the diagnosis of his performance. He lacks core strength. He needs to work on his angles. His footwork is a bit rusty. 

Kevin looks at his left hand, feeling the pain flare and travel from the tip of his fingers to his elbow. It feels _good_. He gets up and painstakingly slow cleans the court, fixes everything so no one will ever know he snuck in like a bandit. The drive home takes no more than fifteen minutes and he falls in bed, sore but satisfied with his stint on the court.

For his efforts on the court, Kevin pays the price of sore joints and a whole weekend without his left hand working right. But he welcomes the old familiar aches with ibuprofen and ice. Sanders sends him messages from time to time, asking about his predictions and input on old games and Kevin makes sure to answer him as he changes to take a walk. He assumed from his inertia in the hotel room and the days holed up at Sanders' apartment that the restlessness that followed him all his life would stay in the Nest, but after getting his dose of adrenaline yesterday, Kevin feels ready for more. He wishes he could go back to court, but small steps. That's what counts right? 

Kevin finally gets around installing Spotify and finding himself a playlist of the ones already there, of course it's to the sound of 80's that his mother infused in him. He leaves his apartment and stops by his car, picking up the camera and going for a walk with no direction. When he first came to Cleveland, he thought nothing good of it, in fact one Cleveland born Raven (Maxwell, 5'7, defensive dealer, medium weight racquet), described Cleveland as the worst place to live. Which is not true, the city itself is charming, albeit a bit cold and Kevin browsed through many things- museums, restaurants, nooks of the city where he could lose himself. He tries to document it: the hurried people, the steam coming out of the coffee cups and the line to a food truck where he stops. 

The smell makes Kevin get in line and reads the writing on the side of it: _Seti's Polish Boys_. He distinctively recognizes the name, maybe Maxwell talked about it, maybe he read somewhere. Before he knows he has his camera hanging from his neck as he tries to bite the sandwich at the same time he tries to keep it together. It's greasy, filled with coleslaw and french fries, staining his lips and fingers at each bite. Probably something no one thought of the mighty Kevin Day enjoying it, and it makes the Polish Boy twice more delicious. Back in the Nest he would have never walked out on a cold Saturday afternoon to eat something so unhealthy. But he's not there anymore, is he? The Moriyamas don't want him anymore. 

Like Aaron said, he's free. And freedom is the ground to discovery. One of the cooks recognizes him and leaves the food truck to stand awkwardly by Kevin’s side as he chomps down on the kielbasa.

"Wow. Never thought you'd be eating one of these. Maybe with kale?" the man jokes.

Kevin rolls his eyes and lifts his hand to clean the side of his mouth."You're world famous," he answers, and takes the last bite of his sandwich with a regretful sigh. "I can see why now." 

"Fuck me, man, Kevin Day likes my sausage,” he snorts as Kevin licks the rest of cheese and coleslaw from his fingers. "Man, this is the best day of my life!"

Kevin cleans his fingers against his own coat, then picks up the camera. "Want a picture?" 

At that the three men behind the grill scramble out of the food truck, almost knocking the one who started the conversation. They have their phones out, the camera turned towards them to a selfie.

When the pictures are taken, one of the men disappears behind the grill while Kevin keeps chatting with them. Other people join the fray, talking in loud voices on how having _Kevin Day_ will make the Black Jackets look like a good team (unlike the Cleveland Browns, someone grumbles, and Kevin has absolutely no idea of who they are, but he agrees). He leaves the food truck for a walk, the Polish Boy in his bag making everything smell like _good food_. He stops once more at the Bike Rack and looks at the bicycles. He doesn't expect to be able to walk all day and biking sounds like a good idea even if the weather is not optimal, so he rents one and tentatively mounts the bike just to hobble a bit on his first tries. 

It had been his mom who put him on a tricycle and ushered him to ride around their driveway. That's one of the few memories he has from her: Kevin can see in his mind's eye his mother's hair pulled into a ponytail and her light gym clothes. If he focuses hard enough he can almost remember her laugh, the pitter patter of her foot against the asphalt as she chased him around. The memory spurns him to focus and find his balance. Pedaling on the slippery streets is another dangerous thing he would have never done if he was in the Nest, but in Cleveland as a free man he cuts through the streets as the wind hits his face. 

Kevin's next stop comes after some exhausting half an hour bicycling that makes his hips hurt. Nevertheless, he stares at the white building reflected on the lake surface; the trees flanking it are without their leaves and the grass is a bit dull, but he ends up with his breath taken away. Kevin lifts up the camera and photographs the first picture of Cleveland Museum of Art.

He locks his bike somewhere and walks the steps, marvelling at the architecture. The brochure handed to him on the entrance tells about all the exhibitions, permanent and transient art shows that Kevin doesn't have enough knowledge to pick exactly where he wants to go, so he does his best to wander. At the lobby, he stops to look at the statue with a plaque that reads _Apollo the Phyton Slayer_. The lifeless bronze eyes are cast down but Kevin examines all the delicate curves of his hair, the perfect diagonal slope of his shoulders and the gentle muscles cast in bronze and stone, finally he fixates on the feet of the statue, the delicate arch and movement stopped elegantly with one of them flat against the floor and the second in an arch.

The second statue that greets him is the statue of Gudea, a stone cast person without their head and with their hands clasped. Unconsciously Kevin copies the gesture, his left hand supporting the right one. Maybe a good metaphor for his last night. He snorts, moving to the galleries without sticking to something: Greek and Egyptian artifacts don't sit right with him. Even though he finds the coffin of Nesykhonsu beautiful, it makes his skin crawl to think people would desecrate a grave and put it on display. The whole section feels stolen, making him want to scream at the guides. Religious imagery does nothing to him- of course, he feels shivers down his spine when looking at Caravaggio's Crucifixion of Saint Andrew, the red looking so much like the Raven's red that makes his step falter. 

But it's the impressionist pictures that capture his attention. Like many visitors, he sits on the floor, admiring Monet's Water Lilies- such delicate colors filling up the room making Kevin smile. He marvels at the Van Gogh yellows and the saturation of Cézane. At the end of it, it's Monet who traps him, the blue saturated sea and the yellow cliffs call something in him: a distant memory of Jean muttering about Marseille and he finally snaps a picture and moves towards the exit, not without purchasing the mugs because he forgot to buy those in the yard sale with Sanders and an stripped umbrella.

All in all, it's a good weekend, even though he spends his Sunday with his calves and left hand throbbing. He comes to work feeling renewed, like freshly kneaded dough, but since his hand still hurts he pulls Mitchell aside. "Can you give me some core exercises?"

Mitchell lifts one eyebrow, then smiles, brilliantly as if Kevin just told him Santa Claus is coming earlier this year. "Sure! But why?"

"Don't feel like I have the same strength than before...I'd like to keep that." Kevin shrugs and Mitchell rubs his hands, pulling him aside to a corner of the gym.

"Boss, that's why you were the best in court. Those bozos?" He points with a thumb to the rest of the team chattering away. "They don't know the importance of core strength. You're pure magic. Come, step on the bosu." 

Kevin is not a stranger to the half moon ball, but he steps on it gingerly, holding on to Mitchell's hand. "Cool cool, can you stand on one foot? I'll leave my hands here if you need support." He lifts one leg slowly, trying to realign his center. "Nice. Left leg please?" Kevin tries to center himself again, but feels his balance vacillating. "Oh okay, your left side. What we're going to do now is to put both feet on the bosu and do some breathing exercises… I get that after the accident you get less confident with your left, so let's find calming techniques."

Kevin nods, watching as Mitchell lowers his hands, placing one of them on the top of his stomach and the other on his back. "Breathe." Kevin does so, and Mitchell tsks. "Use your diaphragm, here," He picks up Kevin's left hand, bypassing the scar and putting it below his. "Do a few exhales, like you were a dog panting." Kevin feels stupid, utterly stupid, but follows the instructions. "Good, inhale again… Now we're talking! Relax your shoulders, you don't have to carry the weight of the world." 

Kevin inhales and exhales, he looks at the curious faces of his few teammates, and stops at Aaron's hardened stare as he bench presses more than Kevin thought he was able to. "Okay, what's next?"

"How much weight does your left hand hold?" Mitchell asks, stepping away to where the kettlebells are aligned.

"I'd start with a kilo. What do you have in mind?"

Miller comes back with the kettlebell, handing it to Kevin. "Stand on your left leg. Now with your stretched left arm you hold this and...yeah swing your leg. Switch when you're done. One minute on each side."

Kevin takes a deep breath and does as he's told. What looks silly actually takes enough effort for him not to fall. When he's done, Mitchell smiles, picking the kettlebell. "Fuck this was actually hard." 

"You took it better than Landry, his balance is awful. Give me twenty squats," Mitchell says, holding a water squeeze to Kevin's mouth and stepping away. Squats are easy, Kevin was used to them while in the Nest, however, keeping his balance is a challenge that makes his stomach burn. "Fuck yes, you're a beauty, boss. Run in place, 30 seconds, followed by 10 squats. Three reps go!" Mitchell keeps encouraging him, he looks more excited than Kevin feels, and with each word, he finds himself blooming back to the person he was before Riko broke him. "Let's wrap up with some skaters, don't want to put too much strain on your hand. 12 reps each side then you're free to run like a hamster on the treadmill." 

Kevin laughs, launching himself into the last set. This one feels familiar, like the shift of his hips when he was chasing the ball on the court. After the last rep he leans against the wall, breathing hard as Mitchell squeezes more water into his mouth. "Fuck." He says, breathless and delirious with endorphins. "This is good."

Mitchell slaps his shoulders, massaging them a bit. "I'll incorporate them on your everyday exercises if you convince those idiots to pay attention to their core."

"Deal."

He spends the afternoon training criticizing some key players' balance and core strength while Mitchell joins the chorus with a smug grin. And like Friday, he goes back to the court at night, only this time he aligns the smaller cones in a straight line and runs between them, forwards, backwards, until his calves are sore and he switches to hitting the cones with the ball. 

Kevin is sore the next day. As he gingerly walks into the gym, he sees some players huddling in the same corner he was yesterday, following Mitchell’s careful instructions. The man himself beams up at Kevin, lifting a thumb when he sees Kevin starting his routine in the elliptical machine. And that is a new pattern: train his team by day, train his body by night. Somehow it feels easier to hold Luke's racquet with each passing day. The left hand still bothers him, going numb by the end of each training and requiring Kevin to ice it every night when he comes home. 

On Wednesday, he feels something pricking on the back of his neck as he planks, his feet placed on the pilates ball and his brain focused on keeping his abs tight. It's not Mitchell's careful eyes tracking him to assure that his weak hand is not overworked, or Sanders who is leg pressing by his left, or even Luke who chats animatedly by his left, giving up halfway in his planking to flop on the floor. Kevin sits down between reps, drinking water and looking across the gym—nothing feels different, except the amber eyes watching him surreptitiously. 

Fucking Aaron Minyard. Maybe it's not enough to walk into Kevin's shower everyday, or scoff at everything he says on Court. He needs to also haunt him in the only place Kevin was starting to feel confident again. Unfortunately, he can't make a scene; Sanders is still watching their rocky relationship with a discomfortable degree of suspicion. But he knows the time will come and he will stop Aaron in his creepy crusade to make Kevin feel like a Raven. 

As predicted, Aaron seems to time when Kevin is almost done with his shower to step in, his eyes gliding over each muscle on Kevin's arm with a detached look. Kevin cuts the water when he's done rinsing his hair and steps carefully into Aaron's personal space. "Take a picture. It will last longer."

Aaron looks up, defiant honey colored eyes staring at Kevin as he lifts one finger and presses over the old scar coming from inside of his thigh to his left hip. Kevin feels the hairs on his arms standing up with the careful drag of a calloused finger over the sensitive tissue. "This," Aaron rasps, his clumped blond eye lashings moving slowly as he blinks. "Doesn't look like an exy scar."

"Mind your business, Minyard."

"But this," he continues, unhindered by the threat on Kevin's voice. Aaron's finger doesn't touch him again, only skates the air near his torso as he traces the bruises the armor left on Kevin's skin. "Looks like one exy booboo."

"Once again," Kevin says slowly, pushing Aaron's hand away from his body. "Mind your business. It would be better for you."

Aaron hums, his long fingers reaching out to touch one particularly sore spot on the scar of his left hand. "I wonder how much truth about you Josten gave us."

"If he heard it from Riko, then none. See you in the Court Minyard."

Kevin leaves the bathroom and gets dressed, feeling the cold seeping into his bones. He didn't meet Josten when he was at the Nest, Kevin was in Germany licking his own wounds, but he’d heard bits of it through Riko's clenched teeth. The words _Moriyama Property, Butcher's son,_ and _useless_ were uttered more than once, and Kevin listened to it. Jean talked about him once, defining Neil Josten as an insufferable backliner. What really chills him is the prospect of Neil knowing what actually happened to his left hand. That will be forever a dirty secret, held back by the loyalty to the man who raised him and to his almost brother. 

Training goes as usual, but maybe not for Sanders. The man looks at him over the roof of his car as if searching for something on Kevin's face. "You and Minyard, again."

"Uh?"

Sanders sighs, running a hand over his beard. "You and Minyard. You spent the whole training frowning at him and he was too complacent. Do I need to interfere?"

"No coach." Kevin drums an off-rhythm beat on the roof of the car. "Minyard is too confrontational. He still sees me as an ex-Raven, not as his assistant coach." Sanders nods, staring at him. 

"And what's the problem with being an ex-Raven?" Sanders prods, and Kevin knows he's trying to fish for information. 

It's no secret to anyone that Neil Josten prompted a rivalry between Ravens and Foxes in a way that collegiate Exy had never seen before. There were older rivalries—Ravens and Trojans—but the Trojans were too good to be goaded into petty Ravens arguments. Penn State and Ravens, which was mostly Ravens fans pouring their adoring devotion towards the biggest of the Big Three. However, the plot of Riko of abducting Neil Josten turned the mouthy striker into the most vocal Raven hater, even if the teams only faced each other once. 

Fans and players hated each other with a fiery passion. After Kevin left for Germany, there were talks about the NCAA moving the Ravens south, which was promptly shut down by James Rhemann and Johnathan Mavis, coaches of USC and Penn who told the NCAA Tetsuji just wanted a weaker league after they lost their first chance for a title.

Kevin hums, drumming his fingers again. "Foxes. They hate us." He says simply. "I'm sorry I can't answer beyond that, you'd have to ask Minyard himself." Sanders sighs and gets in the car, his eyes rolling when he looks at Kevin's face.

"You two are giving me a hell of a headache." Sanders says and Kevin laughs, driving him home before heading back to the court. This time, it feels like his muscles are unknotting, unravelling with each play. He is halfway to knocking all the cones on a rebound when a voice echoes in the empty stadium.

"So he plays."

Kevin swears, his hand spasming while the racquet clatters to the floor. He has to move his head out of the ball’s trajectory and pivot on his heels to face the intruder. Not that Kevin doesn't already know who he is: his voice taunts him, his eyes follow him the whole day. "Shouldn't you be home, Minyard?" Kevin puts a hand on his left shoulder, moving it to relax the muscles that tensed when Aaron decided it was a good idea to surprise him.

"Why didn't you play for the Ravens?" Aaron asks, his arms crossed across his chest, brows furrowed as if he could see through Kevin. 

"Do you think they allowed me to?" A little bit of honesty slips from his lips and Aaron physically recoils from his answer. 

"Why didn't you leave?" He insists, stepping closer to the plexiglas that separates them.

"Why did you quit going to med school?" Kevin retaliates, picking back the racquet and inspecting it for any splinters. He hums when he finds none and twirls it in his hands. "Rumor has it that the Foxes were means to an end."

Aaron doesn't answer, just stomps out of Kevin's vision, disappearing down the tunnel that connects the locker room and leaving Kevin blissfully alone again. Kevin scoops a ball from the floor, knocking down the remainder of the cones. He moves his shoulder again wincing when the muscle pulls wrong as he fixes the cones in an orderly line. He's down to the last one in line when the keys to the court jingle on the door and Aaron steps in, fully dressed up and holding his racquet. 

Aaron stares at him while he stretches, the defiant hazel eyes never leaving him. "What?"

"What the fuck are you doing?" Kevin asks, tightening the hold on the racquet. 

"Stretching." Aaron answers simply, then moves to stand by Kevin's side. He nods with his head to the cones. "Bullshit Raven drills? Neil showed us what he could remember, but I never got the point." 

Kevin knows his mouth is only shut because the helmet doesn't allow him to drop it open. "What?"

"If you're here, I might as well learn something." Aaron says with a careless shrug of his shoulders, holding the racquet like he means business. "Neil showed us the rebound cone one. Never got it. Other players are moving targets."

Kevin swallows down the saliva that has pooled in his mouth and scoops another ball from the floor. "First of all, they are not Raven drills, if people actually took the time to read my mother's thesis they would understand that Exy is based on three principles: speed, accuracy and teamwork." Kevin says, throwing the ball in the air and catching it with the net of his racquet. "But since people seem to think that Tetsuji invented it and perfected it, they forget to look at the source material. The basis for this routine was written in the supplementary material of it." Aaron raises one eyebrow when Kevin stops talking- that might be the second time he crossed Tetsuji, the first he did it publicly. 

"Wow." Aaron says. "Still think they're pointless. Moving targets." 

"I don't know the extent of things that Josten learned while in the Nest. But he taught you without giving the purpose behind each lesson." Kevin says, throwing the ball to Aaron. The backliner scrambles to catch it and Kevin almost laughs. "You know the basics?"

"Drop the cones in a rebound."

"Which order?"

Aaron shrugs and Kevin groans. "You compensate for the moving targets by making a random order." He steps away, placing his back on the plexiglass and twirling his hand. Aaron gets in position as Kevin calls the numbers as fast as he can. That way Aaron only knocks one third of the cones. "See? Compensated."

"I still don't understand it." Aaron says, twirling his racquet over and over again as Kevin puts the cones in place and scoops all the stray balls. "What's the mechanic behind it?"

Kevin smiles behind his helmet- that is the million dollar question he's never heard from anyone other than himself. Aaron might be annoying, but his annoyance comes in the form of questions Kevin always longed to hear from his peers. "To teach you how to calculate the angles for the rebound. How do you think Jean could pass his ball forward to me with just one play? Now, your elbows are too high, use your core and your momentum." Aaron corrects his stance, and Kevin taps the end of his elbows with the end of his own borrowed racquet. "Try again."

Aaron does so, this time knocking more cones. Kevin rearranges the cones and brings the balls back. He calls the numbers once more and Aaron can't seem to knock half of the cones down and he releases a grunt of frustration. "What am I doing wrong?" He screams at Kevin. 

"Watch me. Call the numbers." Kevin says, getting into position and scooping the first ball up. Aaron seems hellbent on making it harder on him, but he manages to drop all the cones. "What's the difference between us?"

"You don't wait until the ball has hit the target before moving to the next one." Aaron says, and Kevin nods at him. "Got it."

They keep alternating between who is fixing the cones and who is shooting the ball. Aaron is not a talented player, something Kevin, someone born and bred in Exy can recognize on the spot. But he is more than that, he is inquisitive, prodding each step of the process until he has it down to the finer details. Then he applies it, repeats until the movement feels natural. 

When Kevin takes a look at the clock, it reads half past ten- they have been training for three hours nonstop and while his whole body sings, it also hurts. It seems like Aaron feels the same, dropping on the floor of the court and breathing hard. "Good job." Kevin says, knocking his helmet twice before he cleans the court and leaves for a cold shower. It's a bit lonely without Aaron's eyes following him and Kevin doesn't linger, leaving the court and finding Aaron's car, a boxy white Kia parked so close to his beat up Volkswagen that it makes it impossible for Kevin to open the driver's door, making him climb through the passenger seat to leave.

He messes around the glove compartment, making the cassettes clack against each other as he picks up his mom's Queen selection. Kevin drums his fingers on the wheel as the song starts to play, _pressure pushing down on me pressing down on you, no man ask for_. He sings along all the way to his home and falls asleep, comfortably sore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you leave one (01) kudo or (01) comment you already have my heart ❤


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "If you say you're bored one more time I'm hanging up." Kevin warns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter, WHOO HOO, and did something change, I wonder? *winks*
> 
> once again I must thank my taste tester [phantom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/passive_phantom/pseuds/passive_phantom) and my amazing betas [Jenn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RainbowObsidian/pseuds/RainbowObsidian) and [Coop](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentCoop/pseuds/AgentCoop) for helping me ❤❤❤❤❤ and everyone who kudo'ed and commented ❤❤❤

In the morning, Sanders raises one eyebrow towards him, as Freddie Mercury sings. "What put you in that mood, boy?" he asks.

Kevin shrugs. "Don't know what you're talking about."

Sanders eyes him strangely, but Kevin ignores it- yesterday's stint makes him feel useful. Important. The teaching process was always his favorite and he wanted to be a good but stern professor, but he always felt lacking. He knows now why the younger Ravens would flock around him when he corrected them with his racquet.

Kevin starts running on the treadmill, watching as his team arrives and spread around the gym. Aaron, predictably, looks dead on his feet when he gets on the treadmill next to Kevin. "Are you going to be here tonight?" he asks under his breath, as if they're both criminals planning a heist on the Black Jackets' stadium.

"Hmhm." Kevin mutters under his breath. Aaron leaves him alone after that, flopping on the floor after the first few miles on the treadmill. Mitchell comes around to see what's wrong and Kevin ignores Aaron babbling about sore arms and a sleepless night. Throughout the training they ignore each other, Sanders looks at him and Kevin shrugs as an answer. Sanders seems to take their silence as a good indicator of the assistant coach-backliner relationship, and even hums happily under his breath when Kevin takes him home.

He parks his car back in the stadium, a few spots down from Aaron's just to avoid any additional headache. Kevin dresses himself up and steps back into the inner ring, finding Aaron flopped again, but this time on the benches.

He barely lifts his head, but musters enough strength to lift his hand and give Kevin the middle finger. "I hate you."

"Good for you. Stop slacking in the morning." Kevin says, prodding Aaron's ribs with the butt of his racquet.

Aaron swats at it, turning to lay on his side and stare at Kevin. "I mean it."

"I'm training with you at night."

"And that's not your job. If Fortin thinks you're slacking then he will not put you in court." Kevin sighs when Aaron holds on to the end of his racquet, turning it into a tug war. "I'm serious Aaron."

"Just tell them I'm tired because you've been training me at night. You're the assistant coach, I'm sure you can figure out something. "

"One, nobody can know about this," Kevin gestures at the court. "Two, I'm the assistant coach, that means I'm here to tie loose ends that Sanders might not see, not to cover for your ass. And three," he gives a hard tug at the racquet, making Aaron topple forward. "Get up and let's work." Kevin turns around and goes to the court arranging the smaller cones on the floor with some distance between them as Aaron stares at him from the bleachers. "Come on. I wanna see your footwork."

Aaron groans and gets up, stretching as he moves towards the court. "Zig zag through them?" he asks and Kevin nods in response, playing with the watch on his wrists.

"I'm timing you. Go." Kevin keeps track of how long it takes Aaron to go from one end to the other, backwards and forward. He lifts one eyebrow when he finally clocks his last sprint. "Impressive." Kevin says, pivoting on his heels to arrange the bigger cones five feet away from the line.

"Wymack was adamant we have good footwork." Aaron says, rolling his shoulders as he picks up his racquet. "What now?"

Kevin scoops the ball from the floor, throwing it in the air and picking it up. "Combine. Do the zig zag and hit the cones. No need for rebound for a while." Aaron nods back at him. "I'll call them up, deal?"

"I hate that word." Aaron says, pushing his mouth protector back in and nodding.

Kevin would press, but it seems like a waste of time, so Kevin only shakes his head and restarts their training. Aaron's accuracy still needs work, but once again he tries, asks questions in between sips of sports drinks and comes back with a vengeance.

This time, Kevin stops after one hour and a half, allowing Aaron to cool down with some stretches.

"Same time tomorrow?" Aaron asks, moving his neck after he removes the golden helmet.

"Yes, be sure to rest tonight. Take a warm shower and eat something, your calves might be sore tomorrow," Kevin says absentmindedly, moving around the court to clean up the stray balls back into the bucket. "And train tomorrow like nothing happened tonight."

Aaron nods at him, his steps echoing on the court. Since Kevin doesn't have the same insane training schedule that Aaron imposed upon himself, he picks up the racquet again, following the exercises he's been doing his whole life.

On Friday morning, Aaron looks better, following Mitchell's careful instructions. The man watches both him and Kevin, his eyes ping ponging between them. When Aaron stops on the leg press with a groan, Mitchell runs to his aid, his hands shooting to grab a hold of Aaron's calf and massaging it. "Damn boss," he says with a smile. "You're getting some thick ass calves. Been doing something on the side?"

Aaron finds his eyes across the gym, and Kevin shakes his head.

"No, oh well, yes." Aaron says with a happy grumble when Mitchell unlocks all of his tense muscles. "Been looking at some old Ravens game per Day's instruction and trying a few moves at home, probably that's why I feel stiff."

Mitchell whistles, moving to the second leg and sending Aaron back to the leg press with a little less weight. "Are you going to share with the class? Which games?"

"Nah," Aaron says as Harriet calls Kevin on his blatant favoritism. "Just watch Moreau."

Mitchell gives out a happy squeal guiding Aaron's leg to perfect the movement.

"What?"

"Boss, Moreau is a piece of art, what a man," Mitchell makes a happy sound, which suspiciously sounds lika a moan.

"Why do you sound like my cousin?" Aaron asks with a fond huff.

"Does your cousin like men big enough to carry him?"

"Actually married to one."

Mitchell shrugs. "Then he's half my soulmate. I like people big enough to carry me. What do you like Minyard?"

"Peace and quiet. A cold beer. Football on sundays. Ribs with barbecue sauce."

Aaron keeps listing and Kevin doesn't know why he's paying attention to Aaron instead of focusing on the arm curling. Maybe some morbid curiosity as to why he stopped playing.

Mitchell whistles again, moving Aaron's leg and pushing a new routine for his reps. "Damn, who broke your heart?"

"Nobody." Aaron says but no one believes him. There's a story clinging to his diversion that everyone around him seems eager to prod when he leaves the leg press, but no one is able to vocalize.

Kevin ignores it, pushing harder on his own training and later watching the team play their scrimmage. He almost gets up from the bench when Aaron uses the footwork they rehearsed yesterday coupled with a potent rebound to place the ball neatly in Luke's net.

Sanders moves beside him, turning fully to stare at Kevin. "That was a Jean Moreau move. What have you been teaching him?"

Kevin contains all his energy, focusing on the game and tapping his clipboard with the pen. "Ravens vs Penn, Jean's second year." Kevin recites, drumming the board. "Might be a good game for Harriet to watch."

"That's blatant favoritism Kevin," Sanders laughs, but keeps his eyes firmly on Aaron for the rest of the game. "I'll tell the team they have a weekend assignment."

Kevin nods at him, drumming his board over and over. He's just very glad to get Sanders into his car once the training is over and drop the coach home before running back to the stadium.

Aaron's obnoxiously boxy car is not there and he feels himself deflating. So much for high expectations for Minyard's dedication. Kevin moves slowly, tightening the straps on his under armor and pushing the shirt over his head. The tunnel leading to the court is bright, and by the end of it he finds Aaron fiddling with his phone, his back resting against the plexiglas carelessly. "Didn't see your car." Kevin says dumbly.

Aaron dismisses him with a wave of his hand. "My whole body is the definition of sore, I got an uber."

Kevin nods, unlocking the court and stepping into it.

"What are we doing today?"

"You're facing me." Aaron's jaw drops as Kevin twirls his racquet. "You're a fast learner, but I saw today you still need a lot of work. Stretch." Kevin orders, twisting his body until he feels the muscles unlocking and falling in place.

"I disarmed Harriet today, that should count for something." Aaron grumbles and stares at Kevin. "Mind if we have some music? Your voice grates on my nerves.”

Kevin acquiesces with a nod, rolling his eyes maybe a bit too fondly. "Do it quickly." Aaron gives him the finger and fiddles with his watch until his phone starts blasting something Kevin has never heard, which is not a rare occurrence since his musical taste extends only to his mother's old cassettes. Aaron locks up the court and stands in position. "Tonight is simple. Stop me."

Aaron nods at him and that's all the warning Kevin needs to scoop the ball and face him. It's a fairly easy quest- Aaron is hungry, doesn't think twice before he launches himself into plays and one, two, three times the goal lights up as Kevin outmaneuvers him. Kevin watches as Aaron falls on his ass, his hands softening the fall as he grunts. "How.The.Fuck?" He asks breathlessly, staring at Kevin with disbelief. "Why aren't you playing?" Aaron pants, throwing his head back. Kevin follows the lazy trail of a sweat drop across the beauty marks on his Adam's apple.

"Why aren't you in med school?" Kevin counters, crossing his arms as the song changes. Aaron groans on the floor, falling completely on it and sprawling. "Get up."

"I'm comfortable here."

Kevin nudges him with the tip of his court shoes, then stretches a hand out towards him. "Up." Aaron goes, holding on to Kevin and leaning on his racquet. "Use your core strength. It seems like the whole team forgot this sport is based on core strength." Kevin scoops a ball, getting into position. "You focus on people's arm, learn how to read them."

"You say it like it's easy." Aaron says after another failed attempt of stopping Kevin. "Not all of us are the son of exy, you know?" Kevin scoffs at him, the more Aaron fights him, the harder Kevin makes. His hand is burning on the first time Aaron twarts a play. "Yes!"

"What's the difference this time?"

Aaron hums, throwing the ball back at Kevin's net and getting ready. "Your torso pointed to the left."

"Good. No drills tonight, we stop when you keep me from scoring three times in a row." Kevin proclaims and back to the game they are. It's not easy, Aaron stumbles, his hand burns with the effort, but it feels good nonetheless. At each play, Aaron's confidence grows, he doesn't dive right in, waiting and reading Kevin, dancing around him on the balls of his feet.

It's truly beautiful to watch and Kevin actually smiles behind his mouthguard when Aaron relentlessly stops him.

"Fuck. Okay." Aaron breathes deeply, stepping away from Kevin to collect the balls on one side of the court while Kevin goes to the other end for Aaron's balls. "Okay this is actually making sense."

"Glad to oblige." Kevin says, locking the court behind them and shutting the lights on the tunnel as they leave. "Go home and rest for the weekend, we can try scrimmage on Monday."

"Hell no," Aaron drops his sweaty armor and clothes on the hamper in front of his nook while Kevin places Luke's racquet on its stand and shoves his clothes in a plastic bag. "I've been entertaining you every night like a damn exy hooker, you owe me something."

"Like what?" Kevin humours him, sighing at the first hit of cold water against his body. Just like every morning, him and Aaron are three showerheads apart, but this time none of their animosity colors their shower. "I'm already giving you personal training for the season, isn't that good enough?"

"Fuck, don't know." Aaron leans against the wall, soaping himself lazily. "What the hell you do in Ohio?"

"Many things," Kevin closes his eyes, shampooing his hair and rinsing it. "What do you have in mind?"

Aaron hums, shutting down the shower and wrapping himself in a towel. "A good greasy burger with fries and a cold beer."

Kevin doesn't share in the delight that fills Aaron's voice. It’s not that he cannot appreciate good food, like the polish boys he had during the weekend. But after the intense training, his still Ravens-wired brain still screams for the tasteless slurry and juices. Kevin shakes his head, patting himself dry and putting on some jeans and a spare shirt he bought. "Fine," he announces, picking up the bag with his dirty clothes and car keys. "They said Johnny's Little bar is a good spot for what you want."

"They who?"

"Anonymous users on the internet. They say it's a classic from Cleveland." Aaron raises an eyebrow at Kevin, but follows him dutifully to the car. He watches as Aaron stares disbelievingly at the brown VW that Kevin still has to turn the key into the lock to open.

"Are you serious? This thing is older than you." Aaron says, looking pointedly to the cassette player embedded on the console. "It even has a cassette player."

Kevin shrugs, turning the key and waiting for the car to heat up. "Shut up and get the Depeche Mode cassette on the glove compartment." Aaron opens it, the tapes spilling into his lap as he sorts through it. In the end, he pushes the U2 cassette on the player. It clicks and Bono's voice fills the space of the car. "Before you ask, they're my mother's tape… Wait, that's not Depeche Mode."

"I spent my college years drinking in a shitty fetish bar that would play Depeche Mode nonstop. Please spare me a replay," Aaron says simply, looking out at the windows and watching the road. Kevin doesn't want to admit out loud that he wants to ask for more stories and he also doesn't want to admit that he keeps stealing looks at Aaron's profile.

He looks good.

Kevin also thought the same of Andrew when he and Riko went to recruit him. Objectively, he can even say that Aaron is prettier than Andrew, even if he bears the same face as his twin. There's something about the absence of the court-ordered drugged smile that makes Kevin feel at home. Down to his core he feels like he can understand Aaron- the initial wariness of seeing a former Raven and the gradual unraveling of who he is. Not that Kevin knows much beyond his stats, or that he hates Depeche Mode.

The picture he has from Aaron Minyard is very different from the file Tetsuji once compiled for him. He was supposed to be unimportant: too small for his position, didn't fit well with his team, his main goal was to become a doctor so he didn't focus on the game. Left side weakness. Former xanax addict. The man that sits by his side is someone different: he's still too short for his position, but makes up with clever plays; fits very well with the selection of backliners in the Black Jackets' roster; focuses on the game even if he's just sitting on the sidelines; left side weakness is slowly disappearing, but he still favors his right side; Kevin doesn't know about drug addictions, but he's sure it would have already come up if he was back at it.

Kevin stops in a street adjacent to Johnny's Little bar and pokes Aaron awake. The backliner wakes up with a huff, blinking his hazel eyes up. "Wake up." Aaron grunts in response, leaving the car slowly and walking into the bar with stiff steps. They sit on a table for two in the corner, facing each other and lifting up the menus when the silence becomes too big. "Tuna sandwich on sourdough and a pineapple juice."

Aaron doesn't look like he enjoys the food selection from him, instead he smiles at the waiter. "The original burger, with bacon, cheddar and caramelized onions...I'll also have the Mac and cheese bits and a pint of Henry IPA." Kevin stares at him and Aaron cocks his chin when the waiter leaves. "What? It's not like you and Mitchell won't make me sweat it out on Monday," he says with another careless shrug of his shoulders.

A comfortable silence falls upon them and Kevin takes his time to look around- the bar isn't big, walls and chairs made of honeyed wood and a television that plays old Cleveland Browns games while the other patrons chat animatedly. There's a low yellowed lamp hanging, making the whole place cozy.

"Why won't you eat a burger?" Aaron blurts out of the blue.

Kevin leans on his right hand to answer him. "I was never introduced to greasy foods," _Allowed_ might be a better word for it, but in this bar feels too homey to be tainted by the ugliness of the Ravens. "My stomach doesn't take it well."

Aaron scoffs, watching the waiter lay his banquet with a tiny smile. "Back in Palmetto we would have a lot of greasy foods on the weekends. My cousin enjoyed a good burger. And pancakes and ice cream for my brother."

"What about you?" Kevin asks, taking a bite of his sandwich.

"I'd eat what they ordered. Never cared much for what I was going to eat as long as I was eating." Aaron takes a bite of one of his Mac and cheese fingers, the cheese stretching between his fingers and teeth in a wobbly line. "But this is good," he says mid chew.

Kevin chances a smile around their sandwich. They fall into silence again, digging their food until they're halfway through.

"What does one do in Cleveland?" Aaron asks again, looking around the patrons in their colorful jerseys.

Kevin steals one mac and cheese finger, breaking it in half and taking a small bite. It does taste good. "Don't know. I went to the Cleveland Museum of art and Youngstown."

Aaron hums around his beer at the town name."Not the Rock n Roll Hall of Fame?"

"'Was thinking about visiting it this weekend, but I guess I'll stay home. I need a rest."

Another beat of silence as they munch their food. The patrons around them are singing, talking loudly, but it feels like they're in a pocket of the universe of their own. "Why Youngstown?"

"The Black Jackets were originally from Youngstown. Did you know it's one of the oldest Major League Exy teams?" he asks, licking the cheese that clung to his fingers. Aaron shakes his head, then squeezes ketchup on his burger. "The city was left in ruins after the steel industry declined there. It's a sad story actually."

"Then why do you go there?"

Kevin stops to think while he chews the last of the deep fried Mac and cheese. There's a metaphor in Youngstown he's not ready to give out to the world- a city where he can get lost because it's just like him, destined to be the shining jewel of a crown and demoted to a sad story. "I like photographing it. There's this….Americana feel?

"In abandoned houses?" Aaron counters, finishing his burger.

"In the whole architecture and story of it."

Aaron eyes him with such fondness that Kevin has to look away and into his pineapple juice cup. "Never took you for a history nerd."

Kevin blushes under the yellow lights. He's definitely a history nerd deep inside. "I like it. There's something that calls to me. The shapes. The colors." He doesn't want to complement his words, but they dance in his brain anyways: the all consuming American dream of success. A guidebook for those who can't make their own.

"I might go see it, does the old stadium still stand?" Aaron asks and Kevin shrugs. He's got so lost in the suburbs that the thought of visiting the founding place of his team escaped from his mind. "Sounds like a place to think." Kevin nods as Aaron belches, relaxing against his chair. His eyes look droopy and Kevin can feel himself winding down.

"I'm gonna pick up the tab, then I’ll drive you home" Kevin announces, getting up and moving to the register where a chatty blonde keeps making moon eyes at him. He ignores her and pays, then goes back to a satisfied Aaron who's watching the TV with intense eyes. With everything going on, Kevin forgot about the regular season of exy coming to an end- the New York Knights are playing and he can see Andrew standing impassively on the goal. But he doesn't care about the other Minyard, focusing instead on Aaron's dissatisfied frown. "Come on. I have no idea where you live and this is not a playoff deciding game, the Knights have already clinched it."

Aaron opens his mouth to complain, but resolves not to move forward with it, instead following Kevin with a sedated pace to the car. "Yeah…" Aaron always seems to continue their conversation belatedly and Kevin enjoys the fact that he takes his time to digest whatever he wants to say. "I guess you're right, I should focus on myself."

"I didn't say that, but that's a good take. Our season starts in three weeks and I'm going to make you the best backliner in the league."

Aaron snorts. "I like your confidence, big guy." Kevin smiles at him and they drive in silence, except for Aaron's tired voice giving him the directions. The apartment building where Aaron lives. "I guess this is it. See you back on Monday?"

"Yes, remember to stretch during the weekend and not eat another burger. Mitchell will have your liver."

Aaron laughs, and it rings inside Kevin's car, making him feel giddy like never before. "Sure, coach...By the way, phone number?? I need to yell at you the next time you make my calves burn."

"Sure."Kevin fumbles a bit, giving Aaron his number and waving goodbye from the car like a fool.

***

Kevin is sitting on his sofa on Saturday when his phone pings, making him jump a bit. Jean wouldn't send him texts, their old ingrained fear of having their words spread in the locker room made them rely on phone calls only; Sanders said he was visiting an old friend before the craze of the season started so that only leaves the scary possibility of Tetsuji finding his new number and deciding it’s been too long since he reminded Kevin of his place. He picks up the phone with some wariness and watches as the Unknown Number warning floats. Below it, there's a simple phrase _Netflix suggested me Damnation, sounds like something you should watch._

He squints at the screen, then decides to ignore it. The message looks suspicious enough and Kevin has had it with the threats from his former team. So, instead of answering it, he focuses on getting up and working on his lunch. For the lack of a better thing to do, he decided to go for some homemade poke- that means cooking the rice the right way to accompany it and slicing the tuna into symmetrical cubes. His phone pings four more times as he seasons the fish and dices the green onions. When it's all done, his phone rings and Kevin washes his hands before he picks up. It's the same Unknown Number from before and he presses the green phone icon, but instead of saying _hi_ he keeps his mouth shut.

Seconds tick by as the cold sweat rolls down from his nape. "...Hello?" It's Aaron's voice and Kevin finally breathes easy.

"Fuck, you scared me. What do you want?"

"I've been sending you messages. This show looks like your thing." Aaron says from the other end. Kevin cradles his phone between his ear and shoulder as he cleans up the knives and whatnot. "Disgustingly american."

"I don't have a netflix."

It's Aaron's time to be silent, followed by a muttered _what the fuck_. "Fine, use my account. Aminyard@gmail. The password is Columbia423115."

Kevin lifts an eyebrow in response, but catches himself in time, since Aaron can't see him. "Uh...okay thanks? What is it about?"

"I don't know. America's midwest in the 30s. Use the Katelyn profile, she doesn't have access to it anymore."

Kevin hums into the receiver, getting a bowl and fixing himself with enough rice and fish, topping it all with a large serving of mayo. "Are you bored?"

"Yes. Thought about going out but the weather is awful." He pivots on his heels, watching the rain hit the glass of his window in fat drops. Outside the trees rattle and shake with the winds. "I'm cooped up. I've seen everything on Netflix."

"Is it possible?"

"It's an exaggeration. Just like Riko's talent," Aaron says carelessly and Kevin finds himself biting his lips not to laugh. "I'll send you the written login information, see you on Monday."

Just as soon as the call started, it ended, leaving Kevin looking at the phone as the call time blinks back at him. He sits down on the sofa, opening the Netflix app on the TV and typing carefully the information. The starting screen has five colored boxes: _Andrew Nicky Aaron Neil_ and _Katelyn_ , he vaguely recognizes the last name as Aaron's ex, and it's a miracle Kevin was able to pull out her name from memory. He gets into Katelyn's profile and is suddenly assaulted by the suggestion of Romantic and Medical series, which Kevin ignores as he types carefully _damnation_.

The series pops up and Kevin hits play, shoveling his rice with poke in his mouth. Aaron is right, he's hooked in an instant, only moving when he has to put more food into his plate. It's a blessing Kevin's apartment is so tiny, he can even hear the show from the bathroom in the few breaks he takes.

Next thing he knew, the storm had abated and the light was dying outside. He picks up his phone and texts Aaron a short message _that was good._ Aaron answers right away, making Kevin's phone pings as he pops his spine: _Told you, watch Godless._

Kevin stretches himself and picks up the pillows from the bedroom, arranging his long limbs in the tiny sofa and playing yet another series. He has a stack of dirty plates in front of him and an empty juice pitcher, but the second show hooks him so bad he falls asleep on the couch, just to wake up to the gray light of the sunday morning and the TV asking him _Are you still watching?_ Kevin wipes the crust out of his eyelids and drags himself into a lukewarm shower. His neck will give him hell for falling asleep on the damn couch but… Netflix is addictive. He needs to manage his time better, he could have done so much more.

And yet it doesn't feel like lost time, he feels like he accomplished something everyone in his age has done several times but he's been deprived. Kevin hears his phone ringing when he's out of the shower and mindlessly swipes right and Aaron's face pops up. "I'm bored."

"Good for you." Kevin places his phone on top of the small sink, turning around and drying himself.

"Are you naked?"

"Are you facetiming me?"

"Are you answering facetime calls naked?"

Kevin turns around and props his phone up after he's wrapped the towel around his waist. "I thought it was a regular call."

Aaron scoffs at him and Kevin can hear the clinking of glasses. He forgot how much he missed the noise of someone else around him-after five years of the constant presence of people in the Nest, the silence still rings foreign in his ears. "I'm bored."

"Don't you have other teammates to annoy?"

"I do, but I'd rather bother you." Aaron says and Kevin keeps hearing the sounds, a blender, the hum of a heater, a show in the background. "Did you know Cleveland doesn't have an IKEA?"

Kevin shrugs while he brushes his teeth. "Don't care about IKEA. Anything else you want to say?"

"I'm bored s-"

"If you say you're bored one more time I'm hanging up." Kevin warns.

"I'm picking you up in half an hour, they have an At Home and I really need to buy more cups."

Kevin drops the towel, putting on the most comfortable sweats he owns. He's not leaving his home today, there's a siren call from Netflix and he is ready to hear it. "Who said I'm going with you? And you don't even have my address!"

Aaron shrugs on his end, then licks the pinkish vitamin strip smeared over his upper lip. "Sanders gave it to me. Said we need to talk instead of picking on each other like a pair of teenagers discussing if My Chemical Romance is better than Fall out boy."

"I missed the reference and somehow I doubt Sanders said that." Kevin says, pressing the last of his deodorant on his armpits. "Do they have a drugstore nearby? I'm out of deodorant."

"Gross. You're right, it was Miller. There's one there, yeah."

Kevin nods at Aaron. "Half an hour then." He hangs up and finished dressing. A sigh leaves his lips asKevin looks at the mirror. A few weeks ago, he wouldn't have imagined himself training Aaron, or even finding companionship with him. But maybe they're both lonely people and finding in each other an unlikely friend.

Moving around the apartment, he makes a list of what he needs: his sink holds the only two pans he has, living with just three plates isn't ideal and Kevin is tired of having to wash the same two bed sheets every week. Also, towels. Never in his life had he considered the importance of hand towels and dishcloths. He's good in the cutlery department, but he could use another kitchen knife and a whisker for his eggs.

All in all, it's a nice idea to go out. Even if it's still raining.

Kevin changes his sweats for some jeans and puts on a fuzzy yellow sweater he's found somewhere deep in his mother's boxes in the Nest. It fits tightly around his body, the cuffs coming up to the middle of his wrists- he's entitled to enjoy wearing her clothes when they fit him. Kevin ties up his shoes and gets his umbrella and wallet, outside the rain is gentle, just a soft drizzle that changes directions with the winds.

Aaron's dumb boxy car pulls on the curb and Kevin runs from the front door of his building to the safety of Aaron's car and he regrets it immediately because no matter how far back the seat goes, Kevin's knees are still bent in an awkward angle.

"How do you fit in that apartment? I thought about renting one apartment here but they were like…Matchboxes."

"It fits all I have inside. It's a 10-minute drive to work and has a grocery stop 5 minutes away by foot." Kevin says, running his fingers over the cuffs of the yellow sweater.

"Isn't that a bit too small on you?" Aaron asks, nodding at the cuffs that keep climbing up Kevin's wrists.

"I like this sweater." Kevin answers and they lapse into silence again. The soft music from the speakers fills the space.. It's different from Kevin's usual selection of heavy riffs and men screaming, the lady singing has a soft voice and the gentle chords of an acoustic guitar following her voice- _baby good love and protection, make me your selection, show you the way love's supposed to be_. Her voice isn't melancholic, but the notes of longing are there, clinging to each strike of fingers against the chords.

Kevin chances a look at Aaron and he's not drumming his fingers, he's not even muttering the songs under his breath. Aaron has his hazel eyes set on the streets and the only sign he's listening to what the woman has to sing is the slight tilt of his head and the way he bites his lips when the song changes.

_I'm a cliché in the mornin' and a coward when I'm wrong_

_And when I'm bad news, I'm as bad as can be_

The song is upbeat and Kevin finds himself drumming to the rhythm on his watch, he needs to ask Aaron later about this band. He's sure he’s heard her voice filtering from the speakers on Aaron's phone on Friday and maybe, just maybe, he can get out of the shade of his mother.

They stop in front of a big blue and grey store, the logo lit up even though it is morning. The parking lot is almost empty, granting him a spot near the entrance and a few steps away from the line of shopping carts. Kevin gets out almost at the same time as Aaron, dashing through the light rain to pick up two carts and get in the store. A young guy greets them at the entrance, then they stop by the plant section first. Aaron looks at them critically.

"You good with plants?" He asks and Kevin shrugs: plants weren't compatible with the darkness of the Nest so he never tried to cultivate one. Aaron browses through the plants and places one in each cart.

"I'm not committing to a plant." Kevin says, trying to put it back in place, but Aaron slaps his hand away.

"Minyard." he warns.

Aaron points a finger towards him."It says it's a ZZ plant. Wet it sometimes, and it doesn't need light." Aaron pushes his cart forward, ignoring Kevin's protest and starting their route through kitchen utensils. It's kind of disorienting to look at so many things at once, so many options- the yard sales were a secure option not to overwhelm Kevin. At Home makes him dizzy with its ambient music and variety. He ends up picking the first of everything that he needs in his list and following Aaron around as his cart gets overflowing with things.

"Why are you buying so much stuff?" Kevin asks when they finally dock side by side in the paying line.

Aaron hums, rearranging his cart so the heavier things are put on the belt first and the lighter later. "Andrew said he might drop by when his season is over."

"Oh,"

"Won't Moriyama visit you?" Aaron says the name with a look on his face like he just drank the water in the bottom of the trashcan.

Kevin bites his lip, drumming his fingers on the handle of the car. Aaron keeps staring at him, waiting for an answer that won't ever come. They silently pay for their things and return to Aaron's car. The ride back to his apartment is quiet, Aaron keeps the radio on a low volume, the same lady singing softly about perfect disasters and taking it all back. Kevin is not paying attention this time, chasing the raindrops that hit Aaron's windshield.

Once they're in front of Kevin's apartment, Aaron sighs deeply, looking at Kevin. "Sorry for the question."

"No problem." He finds himself saying, his eyes tracking the drops running down the glass.

"It's just weird, you two were jo-"

"See you tomorrow. Training afterwards, we have two weeks until the season starts." Kevin turns around to pick his bags and the damn ZZ plant Aaron forced him to buy and leaves the car without any other words. He already knows what Aaron will say, it's what everybody asks.

_You were joined by the hip. You were Exy's most deadly duo._

Yeah, until the Moriyamas had to throw a tantrum and ruin his life. He's now stuck in his tiny apartment, in a position he never wished for, degraded and broken to the world.

He kicks his apartment door closed and feels like throwing everything on the floor, fuck the plant, fuck the plates. Kevin wants to scream to the world about how unfair it was that he never got a chance. But then he would just be like Riko, taking his anger out on things that don't have an inkling of blame.

Taking a deep breath, he puts the damn plant on his tiny table, cleans the plates and new utensils. Throws himself on the sofa and turns on the TV again to do what he intended to do:

Sits down and forgets about the world.

On Monday, he trains as if nothing went wrong, but he feels Aaron's eyes following him in the gym. Kevin makes sure to make some small talk with Mitchell, praising him for the work he’s done to ensure more players are focusing on their core strength. Miller comes up to him with some doubts about a play, and even Perez, the elusive goalie coach, pulls him aside to talk about some plays between the backliners and the goalies, in which Fortin joins with a critical eye.

It's a welcoming distraction from the words that still hang on his mind. That people still put him and Riko in the same place. This time he excuses himself earlier, taking a quick shower and finding solace in the solitude of his office.

"Why does it feel like you and Minyard are at the off part of the relationship?" Sanders asks as soon as the door closes behind him. Kevin, who had been focusing on watching the recap of this weekend's game, pulls out the earbud from his ear.

"Sorry you said what?" He pulls the second earbud out and pauses the game.

Sanders releases another long suffering sigh, shuffling some papers away and sitting on Kevin's messy desk. "...So much like coach…" He shakes his head, peering to look at the screen of the computer. "You and Minyard. He was following you the whole day and you were ignoring him."

Kevin drums his fingers on the table, probably following the rhythm of one of Aaron's songs. "I was not. We have been talking plays the whole day. It's expected when the season is upon us."

"So fucking much like Kayleigh." Sanders places his fingers on Kevin's scarred left hand, tracing the awkward raised lines of his flesh. "She would also divert me like that when things were wrong. Whatever it is, talk, don't act like she did." He pats Kevin's hand twice and gets up, tired joints creaking. There’s a question there- Kevin never imagined his mother would have troubles of her own, the image he had was of an efficient worker, who like him, would ignore herself in order to get into work. "And go fucking eat something, Baker didn't work the whole morning not to see you."

Kevin nods, then points to the game paused on his screen. "As soon as this is over, I'll go there. Did you see how the Rangers improved their attack this season?"

It's the cue for Sanders to leave the room and Kevin focuses back on the game; he stops often, going back and forth between plays and drawing them on his pad, thinking about how his own players could put it forward. Kevin taps the edge of the pen against the pad, drawing and drawing until there's a knock on the door and Baker's head pops up.

"Brought this for you."

Kevin smiles, looking at the clock on his wrist and realizing he must have lost two hours watching the game.

"Oh, thank you," he says, picking up the plate and forks. His own stomach grumbles unhappily about the lack of nutrients- greedy thing, he used to train with way less on his stomach. Maybe he's getting soft. Kevin runs a hand over his stomach, feeling nothing but the hard muscles there.

"No problem. Sanders told me you were down the rabbit hole of games, figured it wouldn't hurt to bring you something." Baker turns the chair around, sitting astride and smiling at Kevin- which makes him think he never took the proper time to talk to the man. "Everyone needs a bit of food you know? Even the amazing Kevin Day."

Kevin smiles sheepishly, digging into the omelette with vegetables. "This is good." He says.

"Yeah I figured you'd like something lighter…you're not too happy when I make you heavy foods, so I made this for you." Baker smiles, and somehow he got all of Kevin's favorite vegetables right. "If you want me to cook you something different I will, just tell me okay?"

He nods, forking more of the omelette until it's over. There's a fruit salad on the side and Kevin goes for it after a few beats of silence. "You don't cook what I don't eat… I mean, I don't think deep fried foods have a place in this team's diet."

"Well, the day after a win it's a tradition to serve poutine." Baker says and Kevin lifts one eyebrow. "...You disapprove of it?"

"I don't even know what a poutine is." Kevin says truthfully, chewing a sweet piece of pineapple. Baker looks like someone slapped him in the face then called his mother a whore. "...Should I know?"

"What did they serve you at the Ravens?"

_Nothing good._ The answer dances in his mouth, between bites of pineapple, strawberries and banana. Baker’s food is one hundred times better than the tasteless oatmeal slurry infused with vitamins he's eaten his whole life- that somehow got worse once he was demoted to assistant coach. Baker's food always has some special flavor that he tries to recreate at his own house, following the instructions in the sheet he'd received in the first meeting with the coaching staff. "Ultra nutritional food."

Baker scoffs, taking all the dirty dishes and getting up. "Sounds like shit, I'm glad we have you now… I think Sanders was about to start today's training."

Kevin nods back at him and gets up. Training is as chaotic as he expected; with the season looming over them, the team's hackles are raised. The players bicker among themselves and Sanders looks as if he's exasperated. And Kevin is...confused. He is simply not used to seeing that level of disagreement in the Black Jackets. Halfway through the training, the goalie and the backliners start to argue, with Perez and Fortin watching it on the sidelines.

He's had it. He bangs the wall with his injured hand, the sound making the team turn around and face him. "I'm sorry did I walk into a peewee Exy training? Should I wait for when you start pulling your pigtails and start the _your mother_ jokes?" Sanders is not the only one staring at him with wide eyes. The whole team looks at Kevin as if he grew an additional head. "Coach, this is not going to work. Are you all tired and need a nap? Too bad. Pair up."

The team argues, looking at Sanders who raises his palms up in surrender. "Kevin has full reign of the team now."

Kevin walks into the court, bringing the subs along and pairing offense and defense, telling each one what they should do- which makes him receive more scowls than pleased looks. But he absolutely doesn't care. The team is bigger than his pride. Kevin stands on the sidelines, arms crossed as he locks the plexiglas door.

"For how long coach?" Luke asks from across the Court, where he's paired up with a pissed off Aaron.

"Until you can't feel your arms, I don't care. If you want to act like kids I will treat you like kids." He blows the whistle and pulls the other coaches near him. They watch each pairing, commenting on their performance and what they need to work with. Pair based system is a staple that worked well for the Ravens, but most of the time they were paired by similar positions. This way they can hack flaws. Every half an hour he blows his whistle, making a rotation of players and starting all over again.

They must have gone beyond the allotted training time, because the team leaves the court boneless and grumbling about Kevin. Kevin snaps his fingers in front of Sanders' face.

"Kevin…"

"You were distracted." Kevin says, opening the door for his coach and rounding the car to sit on the drivers side. "You said that if I needed someone to talk, you were here. It goes both ways. Harriet was almost decapitating Czekala and you did nothing."

Sanders clicks his tongue and looks at Kevin with tired eyes. "Personal problems. Someone close to me got diagnosed with sclerosis."

"You can talk to me. If need be, take a week off. Get your head back in the game." Kevin says, starting the short drive between his coach’s apartment and the Black Jackets stadium. "But do not lose control of them. If you can't do it, then let me. That's why I'm here." They ride in silence after that, but when they reach Sanders home, the man places his hand on Kevin's knee, squeezing it.

"I'll think about it Kevin, thank you."

Sanders nods at him, waving as he turns around and goes back to the stadium. Aaron's car is still parked there, but he probably moved it to a spot closer to the entrance. Kevin is not in the mood for dealing with Aaron, his question still sours Kevin's mood, but there's nothing he can do about it: if Aaron is committed to training, so is he.

He changes quickly into his jersey, noticing that there's a racquet just like Luke's laying on the bench, but this one is new, made of hollow hickory wood. Unlike Luke's the varnish is dark and the shaft is not smooth, the carved sides make it easier for Kevin to hold on- even with his injured hand. He tests the pocket, stretching it and feeling the Nylon hold. Kevin twirls it in his hand until he finds his name burned on the wood _Day 02_.

There's also appropriate armor and Kevin feels his mood changing. This is Aaron's doing. His songs filter softly from the court down the locker room and Kevin's shoulders relax. He puts on the new armor, moving this way and that way. It fits his body perfectly.

The racquet is… Kevin doesn't know how to describe the feeling of having his own racquet again. Euphoric. Hopeful. He looks up and Aaron is leaning casually against the doorframe of the locker room, twirling his own racquet.

"Should I turn around and leave you two alone?"

Kevin lifts his middle finger at him, then squeezes Aaron's bicep. "Thank you. That means tonight will be harder."

Aaron cocks his head, a bit confused but keeping himself silent until they enter the court- the cones are already arranged and Kevin nods approvingly at their perfect order.

"I gave you something. Now give me something back." Aaron says as Kevin calls the plays. "Give me security."

_Five eight two._ He calls the cones, watching Aaron hit each one as he works his feet through the obstacles. "What do you mean?"

"You flipped." _Three ten nine_. "When I asked about Moriyama, you flipped." _Seven one six_ , Kevin walks down, rearranging the cones and sending the balls back at Aaron's way. "I can't have that Kevin. You'll be in the spotlight and the media will be on to you." _One five nine_. "Kevin, you can't shut the media like you did to me." _Three seven eight_. "Kevin," _Two six four_. The first ball hits Kevin in the helmet, the second in the forearm, the third hits his stomach and Kevin curls on himself. There are a few seconds of disorienting pain as Aaron's footsteps echo in the court.

He watches helplessly as Aaron's gloved fingers grab the grid of his helmet and pulls his head up. Kevin feels his whole body locking, half expecting to see Riko's menacing black eyes. Instead, it’s Aaron, concern bright in his hazel eyes. "Aaron."

Aaron bumps their helmets together, still holding onto the grid. "I don't fucking know what he did to you, but I've seen what he did to Josten," Aaron says, his fingers trembling. "If he almost broke Josten on a winter break, I can't imagine what he did to you."

"I," Kevin takes a shuddering breath, his hands falling limp on his sides. "He,"

"Kevin. You have to fight back." Aaron whispers, bumping their helmets again. "Please."

They fall silent again and Kevin would give anything to know what's going on Aaron's head- he watches as the blond’s lashes flutter open, hazel eyes staring back at him. An outer ring of green and an inner ring of brown, the golden flecks spread all over his irises. It's one of the most beautiful things he's ever seen. "I need to sit." Aaron nods at him and Kevin leans on the wall, sliding until he's sitting on the floor. Aaron walks to sit beside him and as a unity they fumble with their helmets, unclasping the straps and staring at the empty end of the court. "They wouldn't allow me." Kevin says finally, feeling the weight lifting off of his chest.

"What?"

"You asked me once why I didn't leave. I tried, but they wouldn't let me," he whispers into the empty Court. The phrase is muffled by Aaron's ever present songs. "I couldn't play for several reasons. A cripple in the perfect line up was a mockery of the Ravens. And I know myself, despite this," Kevin lifts up his left hand, moving each finger with a dexterity he forgot he possessed. "I would have found a way to be who I was again, and that would be a mockery of Riko. So I took the only option I had. I believed the Master was doing the best for me. He and Riko were the only family I was ever allowed to know."

Aaron releases a sigh, then leans his head on Kevin's shoulder. "How did that happen?" he asks quietly, eyes following the line of Kevin's arm until they stop on his left hand.

Kevin takes a deep breath, flexing his fingers the best he can. "They said I was holding back," he starts, swallowing the fear and the bitter memories. "That Riko wasn't that good compared to me. At the Winter Banquet before my second year they…" Kevin breathes in again, the scene passing like a movie in his head. "They pitted me against Riko. The Master told me not to hold back. And I didn't." He watches as Aaron stretches his hands, cradling Kevin's left fingers between them. "And I would have won, if Riko played fair. Riko didn't like it. Took him three swats of his racquet." _Heavy, short in length, shallow net depth, one parallel red mark on the middle of the body._

Aaron makes a noise like a wounded animal, his hand reflexively clenching around Kevin's fingers. "He…"

"I tried to run. The Master found me. He said if I was good enough I could play again. And that's the story. I was fooled and caged," Kevin says finally as Aaron wraps their fingers together. "You don't fuck with the Moriyamas, so I stayed. Until I couldn't stand it anymore. I think the next step is the grave."

They stay in the half silence of the Court, Aaron's songs coming muffled as they mull over what he just said. It feels good actually, to finally let out everything he's been holding back for so long. The truth that scratched and begged to come out of his mouth is finally out there, released to someone willing to listen.

"I snapped." Aaron says, his eyes fixed on the line of small cones dividing the Court. "I thought I had everything. Nice girlfriend. A career ahead of me. The American dream; 1.93 kids, a house with a white fence and a 9 to 5 job as a neurosurgeon." Aaron chuckles, shaking his head and laying it again on Kevin's shoulder. "But then I snapped, you know? One day I asked myself if that's what I really wanted, or what I was told to have by everyone else in my life, my mother, my uncle... Exy was a way out," he says softly, gesturing at the Court with the hand that's not entwined with Kevin's. "You know, your mother created a good sport for people who have anger issues. Exy became a way out, I enjoyed it. I'm not as good as my brother, but I think I improved. People didn't like it, my ex had a clear plan about life and I didn't want to follow. But that's okay. I'm not as good as Andrew. I'm not Andrew. I am myself, and for the first time in a long while I'm okay with that."

Kevin turns to look at Aaron and finally sees a true smile in his face- unlike the feral grins he gives out on the Court, or the satisfied show of teeth he presents to him after each training. This one is something particular, something sacred that starts from the upward tick of his mouth to his raised cheekbones and ends in the glint of his eyes. He watches Aaron’s eyelashes flutter close, and closes his own, leaning in further, until their lips press together. Aaron doesn't react other than to tighten their fingers together and press a bit harder against Kevin's lips. "And this?" Kevin finds himself whispering against Aaron's soft mouth. "Are you okay with this?"

"Yes." Aaron whispers back, craning his neck to press their lips again. "I'm okay with this." Kevin settles himself at a better angle, pressing their mouths against each other again. Aaron moves around, releasing Kevin's hand and sitting on his lap. "Are you okay with this?"

"Yes." Kevin says, placing his hands on Aaron's hips and parting his lips. He tastes like strawberry bubblegum and sweat. Smells like the Court and deodorant. And Kevin never felt so content in his life, kissing Aaron senselessly until their mouths are numb and they pull apart to breathe the same air.

"Don't feel like training anymore tonight." Aaron whispers, peppering kisses all over his jaw. Kevin laughs, throwing his head back and letting Aaron kiss his exposed neck, the skin covered by the neck guard.

"Just tonight." Kevin agrees, leaning in to kiss the sensitive skin behind Aaron's ear. "Tomorrow I'll work the team to the bone."

Aaron laughs in answer, pulling back and pressing their lips together again.

Kevin doesn't know how long he sits against the plexiglas with Aaron on his lap. They laugh when their gloves scratch a patch of skin, and kiss even more, Kevin keeps cradling Aaron's waist in his gloved hands while Aaron runs his equally gloved fingers through Kevin's hair.

"It's getting late," Aaron finally says when the songs stop playing.

"I know," Kevin sighs, kissing the black neck guard on Aaron's throat.

"My playlist is three hours long"

Kevin hums, laying his head on Aaron's chest. "It stopped playing."

"We've been here for a long time." Aaron says, getting up from Kevin's lap and pulling him up. They gather all the balls and cones in silence and move to the locker room. Kevin watches as Aaron turns around as they undress.

"Stop Kevin, don't make this weird." Aaron calls when he's down to his underwear.

Kevin snorts from his corner, shoving his dirty clothes in a bag and changing quickly. "I'm not the kind of guy who will pull out on the first date, Aaron."

He crosses the few steps between him and Kevin, laying a trail of kisses down his nape. "Second, if we count the pseudo-IKEA trip. Third, if you count the dinner," Aaron says, wrapping his arms around Kevin. "And I've seen your dick plenty of times in the showers… fuck, this is going to be weird tomorrow."

He lifts up Aaron's bare fingers, kissing each knuckle before he releases his hands. "Only if we make it weird. Shower before me."

Aaron nods, pulling away and kissing Kevin's shoulder. "See you tomorrow?" Kevin hums in agreement and allows Aaron to walk away as he finishes fixing the locker room and goes to his car. The parking lot is already empty and he feels like chasing Aaron. But this is new. Fragile. Kevin drives, his mom's songs following him home and into bed. He feels more tired than he should be, seeing as he got almost nothing done.

Except getting a new racquet and equipment he didn't thank Aaron for. He scrambles for the phone, writing down a message and erasing it, before he types that once more.

_Thank you for the equipment. Now Luke won't risk getting a damaged racquet._

Kevin lays in bed, plugging up his phone and closing his eyes before it vibrates. _Don't know what you're talking about._

He doesn't sleep that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Kevin doesn't pause his netflix to pee, who can blame him?


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe somewhere along the way he disposed of his feathers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're getting there! just one more chapter and this ride will be done!
> 
> but i have to always thank my taste tester [phantom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/passive_phantom/pseuds/passive_phantom) and my amazing betas [Jenn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RainbowObsidian/pseuds/RainbowObsidian) and [Coop](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentCoop/pseuds/AgentCoop) for helping me ❤❤❤❤❤
> 
> and everyone who kudo'ed and commented you people make my day ❤

The sleepless night takes a toll on Kevin; his whole body is locked in an uncomfortable tension, eyes drooping as he drives to pick up Sanders.

The man has the gall to laugh at him. "Working until late again?"

"Hm," Kevin grumbles in response. He needs way more coffee than he’d had that morning. After one guitar riff from Zztop he slams his foot on the breaks at a red light, causing them both to lurch forward on their seats.. "You!"

"Yes. I take from your reaction that you found my gifts." Sanders says with a laughter, patting Kevin's knee. "I've seen you playing at night boy...there are cameras everywhere."

"Don't look at last night's tape." Kevin pleads as the car lurches into drive again. Sanders keeps on laughing, almost doubling over in his seat. "Oh god I just incriminated myself."

"Always knew you and Minyard were having a lovers’ quarrel." Kevin blushes, parking his car in the first spot available on the stadium. "I'm glad for you my boy, but could you come to our office before we start working out? I think Ben is here already."

Kevin nods, not exactly knowing who Ben is. Well, he might have an inkling, but if Sanders is making him talk to Benjamin Sterling, owner of the Cleveland Black Jackets, he's in hot water. However, Kevin has to follow Sanders as he greets every player who's already there. In their office. His worst suspicions come true: Benjamin Sterling is a man who's already in his seventies, his white hair combed back and shining under the low light of their office as he waits with a half smile on his face. Kevin watches as he and Sanders greet each other like good friends, then he shakes Sterling's ring decorated hand with enthusiasm. 

"You talked about it with him, Pete?" Benjamin asks, sitting on the corner of Sanders' messy table. 

"Not yet, other things came up...come on Kevin take a seat." Sanders pats the side of his chair and Kevin moves to his own spot, feeling like a kid in the principal's office. He holds his own injured hand, cradling as if it would give him strength. "You know someone close to me is… not going to be okay for a long while." Kevin nods, and Sanders sighs. "I talked to Ben yesterday and I decided to leave the team."

Kevin's jaw drops, he instantly wants to tell Sanders _no_ , that there's nothing more important than Exy. But he sees in the dark circles around Sanders' eyes, thinks about the cracking joints and easy companionship they shared when Kevin was nothing but a shadow of himself. He swallows the bitter words that want to crawl out of his mouth and nods, forcing something else out. "So we'll need a new coach." Sanders nods his head at the same time Benjamin smiles softly at him.

"I hope you’re up for the challenge, Kevin." Sanders says.

Kevin’s world stops spinning for a second. His ears are ringing, and somewhere distantly Benjamin starts to talk.- _Less than two weeks for the season to start… hard to find someone… might be able to bring in after college ends… former PSU Danielle Wilds is… Trojans graduate…_ it's all jumbled, covered up by the beeping of the bomb in his head and Kevin's mouth moves, maybe for the first time in his life, without the permission of his brain. 

"We don't need more." He finds himself saying. "We have a good team here, our coaching staff might be small but we get the job done. Next year will be next year. This year we have to go forward." Benjamin nods at all that Kevin says and claps his hand once he shuts his mouth. 

"Well," he says with a large smile, then turns to Sanders. "When do you want to break the news to the team?"

The old man mulls and clicks his tongue- Kevin will miss that noise, the infernal tongue clicking and his terribly weak coffee. "Let them work it out first… Why don't you and Kevin work on his new contract while I tell the family I will be home for the season." Benjamin nods at Sanders and pulls out a contract for Kevin, he keeps on telling him how good it is that the Black Jackets have him, that Sanders has only ever praised his work. Kevin ignores him as he reads the contract, eyes widening at the number of zeros on his yearly salary. The only time he stops reading is when his phone pings on his pocket and Kevin excuses himself from Benjamin's talk to read it. 

Predictably it's Aaron's number popping up on his screen.

_Is it weird already?_

Kevin shakes his head, then types a reply one handed _Tell you later. Not weird._ Three dots appear on the bottom of the screen before Aaron replies with a thumbs up emoji. Kevin turns back to the contract, signing it with a tiny smile just around the time Sanders comes in and hugs him. "I trust you, Kevin."

"I won't let you down," Kevin promises and Sanders shoos Benjamin out to discuss what he would have to do now as a head coach. It feels extremely bittersweet, like the first time they talked about the team over a lot of freshly brewed coffee. He feels himself looking over at Sanders- at the man who gave him a home and showed him tapes of his mom in a way he never imagined seeing her. "Thank you." Kevin finally says and Sanders starts to tear up, curling his arms around Kevin's shoulders and keeping him close. 

"I know you won't let me down, can I leave the picture here?" Sanders asks, pointing to the image of him and Kayleigh hugging each other. "Maybe I'll come back."

Kevin laughs, letting go of Sanders and nodding at him. "Bring the family next time. I think your apartment will fit everyone."

They keep on chatting until Baker brings in their food- it seems like the whole coaching staff already knows of Sanders’ decision and they all are going an extra mile to comfort him. Perez and Fortin show up, holding him for a long while, talking in hushed tones; Young and Mitchell tiptoe around the subject of the disease and new treatments, pushing Sanders to come back soon; Miller walks in alone, his eyes red rimmed as he pulls Sanders closer and cries. Kevin hears him saying _take care of Larson, please_. Oh yeah, Sanders and Larson were married for a long time. Baker is the last to walk in, holding twin plates of caponata, couscous and a slice of grilled chicken breast. "Boss you sure?" 

"Yeah. Susan comes first. No matter if we divorced, she's still… You know." Baker smiles, holding their coach. "You will have to do with Kevin's insufferable ass. Make sure he doesn't trip a referee and that he's eating enough calories." 

Baker smiles, looking at Kevin, who's locked in a text message battle with Aaron. Ever since neither him nor Sanders showed up, he's been steadily sending him question marks- just that, rows and rows of _????_

"Yeah, he will be a bit heavier to pull back, I guess Mitchell will have to make a new routine for me," Baker says.

"What do you mean?" Kevin puts his phone face down, finally digging into his food.

"I'm the get back coach." Baker announces proudly. "You will be kissing my ass thank you when I pull you back from fucking up a game because you like to keep your nose against the plexiglass.

Kevin snorts, focusing on his food and eating maybe only half of it. When they finish the cool down time, Kevin grabs Sanders by the jacket and pulls him into another tight hug. "Thank you for taking a chance on me. Come watch us. Don't leave us," he asks, fighting the tears that threaten to come. Sanders keeps him in his arms, almost squeezing the air out of Kevin's lungs.

"Win this season for us," he says and they finally leave the office into the Court. The players are already aware something is wrong and they gather around Sanders and Kevin when they show up. 

Silence falls as Sanders announces he's leaving the team. 

No one questions him.

No one moves.

Except for Luke, who tears through the group and folds Sanders into a tight hug. The rest of the team follows, swallowing them in a wave. "We'll win this one for you coach." Luke cries, making most of the players around them nod and smile. "Thank you for your years with us, old man."

It's a fruitless day. Kevin, in his first act as a coach dismisses the team to lick their wounds and start fresh tomorrow, the only decision he could make, really. Half of the team is a sobbing mess, the other is disoriented. Aaron texts him through the day asking how he feels and he barely answers him, still dazed about how fast things are moving. He texts Aaron to let him know he will be back when he and Sanders are out to their last ride home. "Kevin," Kevin hums in answer, as Sanders drums a song on the dashboard. "You're a coach now, change this car."

Kevin laughs, patting Sanders knee after he changed gears. "It's vintage." Kevin says cheekily. 

"It's good to see you joking, Minyard is doing you good." Sanders says and Kevin rolls his eyes. "You two were fated from the start. The tension. The barbed words."

"The fact he's the only one going an extra mile…" Kevin says, turning down the volume. "Not only in the field. He made me buy a plant."

Sanders shakes his head and Kevin stops the car in front of his apartment. "Not everyone will have the same drive and this is something you will need to learn as head coach. You know the team's weaknesses and their strengths." He hears Sanders sniffling, watches him run the back of his hand across his nose. "Don't let anything hold you back. I'd like to come back to a more honest and less lonely Kevin."

"You will come back to the MLE champions. Bring Larson with you, I'd like to meet her, I think she will have even funnier stories about my mom." 

Sanders joints creak one last time as he leaves the car and Kevin watches him wave from the front of his apartment. For the first and last time, he honks the horn for his coach and turns around, heading back to the court. Unfortunately it's not just Aaron's car that's parked. Quite a few players are still there and Kevin decides to leave the racquet and the rest of the clothes in the security of the spacious trunk and moves into the court. 

Aaron is surrounded by a few of Kevin's favorite players- Donahue, Harriet, Luke, Winston and Brown are sitting near him, still- or better, already in their uniform, twirling racquets and passing balls around. "Minyard said he's been training at night." Harriet is the first who sees him, and she smiles her signature gap toothed smile. "That's mean Coach."

"Told you on my first day that I would teach whoever was willing to." Kevin says and Luke lifts his middle finger at him with a sweet smile. "None of you said you'd be willing, but now you're here, get up and out to the Court, we are way behind the schedule." Winston boos him, but moves to the court and stares as Kevin gives them the run down of tonight’s training. It’s different to be on the court with new players. He has to hold Harriet as she almost trips, corrects Luke’s stance, tells Donahue that his reggae fusion songs suck as he helps the man stretch his arm after a particularly bad rebound. The team is nowhere near Aaron’s level, but they struggle and fall in line. Maybe this will be the spark they need to go on. He lets the team sweat, and surprises himself when he takes Luke’s racquet and shows him how to topple two cones at once. Silence falls over the court as the players stare at him twirling a heavy racquet as if it was just an everyday thing. 

“Didn’t know you could still play.” It’s Brown speaking, watching as the ball rolls neatly to the edge of the court. Kevin shrugs, giving Luke his racquet back and adjusting his body so the angle will be perfect.

“I have a limited time in which I can before my hand starts to hurt.” Kevin flexes his fingers, noticing they feel a lot better now he and Aaron have been practicing. “I can still help when you need, but playing is out of my hands… literally.” Donahue looks like he doesn’t believe him, but goes back to running between cones as Aaron crosses the Court, sending the ball back at him. “Lower your shoulders, lock your stomach, someone will run into you. Harriet, flick your wrist." 

He steps back, away from the errand balls and watches as the team, or at least part of it, falls in line and breathes with relief. When his clock strikes ten, he blows his whistle and shepherds them out into the locker room. Aaron, predictably, is the last one, waiting until they're alone to hold Kevin's left hand. "Weird?"

"If they see us, yeah weird."

"How are you holding up?"

Kevin hums, squeezing Aaron's fingers before he puts two feet of distance between him and the backliner. "So far, so good. We'll wait and see after the first weeks to see how it goes. The team needs Sanders," Kevin says, listening to the muttered chat from part of the team. "But we'll make it."

"I'm asking about you, not the team."

"We'll wait and see after the first weeks. So far, so good." 

Aaron snorts, clapping Kevin on the shoulder as he walks towards the showers. Kevin doesn't know why he stands and waits until his players filter out of the shower, looking both tired and satisfied. Luke sits by his side, shaking his head like a wet dog.

"You know, your favoritism shows when Aaron is the only one getting special training."

Kevin shrugs, patting his knee. "His favoritism shows when he's the only one who bit my bait. How are you holding up?"

Luke drums his fingers on the bench, picking up his shirt and shrugging into it. "I think more shocked than anything else. Sanders was the first who picked me up after the Trojans and I owe him a lot. Hope we can work as good as Sanders and I did."

They watch as the rest of the players pick up their duffels and as one they leave the stadium, only to walk out on a gaggle of reporters and flashes blinking on their faces. Kevin has no time to think over the microphones being shoved into his face _Is it true? How do you feel now you're a head coach? What does Tetsuji Moriyama say about it? Kevin! Look here! Are you following Tetsuji's footsteps? Are we going to see an MLE Ravens?_

He blinks once, twice, then lifts his hands up. There are flashes, lens zooming into the scar of his left hand. "I'll answer one question." Kevin says, then pokes Luke. "I trust my team captain to pick it for me." Donahue snorts behind his hand and Harriet gives a full laugh as the reporters turn to Luke and ask him the most bizarre questions. 

"Okay, I like Ohio Sports! You guys did an amazing review of us last year." Luke points to a reporter who steps ahead of the others. All the microphones are turned to him as he stares at Kevin and his players. "Come on! Ask!"

The man fiddles with his phone and then looks at Kevin. "How does it feel to be head coach, and what do you hope to bring to the team with your background?" he asks and all the microphones turn to Kevin. He tries to pull his stage persona, the same smile he would give that would charm every anchorwoman who kissed his cheeks, but finds himself short. 

Maybe somewhere along the way he disposed of his feathers. 

"That was actually two questions you phrased as one but I'll allow it. Feels good, the Black Jackets are a family before a team and I am proud to say that I'm part of this institution. I have nothing but gratitude towards Sanders and how much I grew by being under his tutelage. I hope to make this team more competitive." He looks back, at the tired but smiling faces of the few players that waited for him. "They already are dedicated. All the team needs is a push to the right direction. Now if you excuse us, I think we all could use a night of sleep after this crazy day."

The reporters are still trying to get something out of him, but the most they get is a picture of his own VW and the sound of Black Sabbath filtering from the speakers. 

Kevin gets home and falls in bed, utterly tired after a night of almost no sleep and a day which turned his life around. He flops in bed with the same clothes of the day, ignoring his rumbling stomach in favor of sleeping.

The week goes smoothly- without Sanders, Kevin has to smooth the edges of his team, break up fights. He imposes a new training regimen that makes Miller smile and Mitchell jump in place when he's allowed to try his ideas during the training. Kevin looks at the clock, thanks the players for the day and locks himself in his office as he studies the schedule of the season. 

Aaron shows up around seven to tell him that now half of the team hasn't gone home and he sighs- Jean had called him in the morning to tell Kevin everything about the enthusiastic reaction of his diehard fans after the interview. _It was good to see you smiling,_ Jean said during the call, and Kevin felt himself warm because of it. Aaron now gives him the same warm feeling and he gestures for the backliner to close the door as he gets up and holds Aaron by the waist. "How did they find out?"

"Some people have a thing called social media." Aaron answers, tucking himself neatly under Kevin's chin. "Your interview was all over it."

"I'm not talking about today's crew. I'm talking about yesterday's crew." Kevin curls his arms around Aaron's middle, keeping him as close as humanly possible. His hair smells like fresh shampoo, mint and something sweet. Aaron shrugs in his arms as he starts to kiss his ear, his neck, his shoulder. 

"They asked me why I wasn't going home." Aaron says, craning his neck so Kevin can kiss the skin on show. "I answered them." Kevin sighs when his lips hit the neck guard and he squeezes Aaron's stomach. "Unhappy?"

Kevin steps away from him, picking up his notepad and pen. "Less necking time, more efficiency on the Court." He says with a careless shrug as he opens the door and ushers Aaron to join the fray of players already running laps. 

He can't say he's not satisfied with the growing number of players following the night routine, or that he's not thankful that Miller is there with him, picking up the slack for the offense and finally finding himself in the same rhythm as Kevin. 

It's another of his routines and by the weekend, Kevin is completely tired, laying bonelessly over his new duvet. It's raining again and he does not want to go out, maybe he can order in something? Maybe spend the day watching netflix on his phone. The said phone vibrates, and he slides to answer Aaron's facetime call. "Hm." He grunts at the phone and Aaron looks too awake for his own taste, his hair is artfully combed back as if he just came out of the shower and he looks too ready to go out. Meanwhile Kevin still has his pajamas on and a crust of drool on the side of his mouth.

"I'm bored."

"Fuck you." Kevin hangs up and turns to the side, burrowing himself deeply under his covers as his phone rings again. 

And again. 

Kevin puts the phone on the good old do not disturb mode and pulls the covers over his head. He is not getting up soon. Kevin is resolute to hide away under the covers and not see anyone or anything. Maybe it's just his sleepy brain talking, he was never a morning person, even with Riko threatening to cut him into ribbons. 

No no, he's not thinking about Riko, he's thinking about the laundry detergent that makes his bed smell like orchids (or at least that's what the package said), the too soft pillows and the fuzzy socks on his feet. Kevin has his own home, paid by with his paycheck, very much away from what he called family. 

He's almost all the way into dreamland when there's a knock on his door. Maybe he should have purchased a bigger apartment; then he would be able to lie and not have to get up. The knocking intensifies and Kevin gets up, dragging his feet around. He knows it's not Jean--they have their own set of knocks, and whoever is knocking has no sense of rhythm, or patience for that matter. Kevin wraps his comforter around his shoulders and opens the door.

"I'm bored." 

Kevin almost closes the door on his face, but Aaron shoulders his way in. 

"And it was very rude of you to hang up," Aaron says, toeing off his shoes and hanging his coat by the door. 

Kevin scratches his eyes and sees something he never dreamed about: someone at ease in his home. He yawns and Aaron uses that breach to worm himself into his arms. "There are a few reporters outside." 

Kevin nods at him, pulling Aaron until they flop on the couch. 

"Kevin?"

"Fuck you." Kevin says, wriggling on the sofa until Aaron's head is on his chest while his feet hang on the edge of the sofa. They shouldn't be this comfortable. Hell, Kevin took months to kiss Thea and here he is, cuddling his backliner who he kissed only a few days ago. "Shut the fuck up and let me sleep."

Aaron grunts, moving on top of Kevin until he's satisfied. "If I wanted to sleep, then I would have stayed home."

"Didn't invite you." Kevin grumbles, patting Aaron's head. 

"I was-"

"Bored, I know. Be bored in silence. Or turn on Netflix and watch something." 

Kevin hears the silence with relief, tightens his arms around Aaron's back and feels himself slipping into oblivion. It's been a while since he cuddled someone, and that someone was Jean, who wrapped himself around Kevin like an octopus while Riko was away doing whatever he and Tetsuji did when they went to beg Kengo for something. "Kevin."

He groans loudly, finally opening his eyes and staring at Aaron. The little shit has the _audacity_ to look bored. 

"I am-"

"A broken record, that's what you are." Kevin says, throwing an arm over his eyes and shielding them from the low white light that filters between the rain clouds.

"You have terrible morning breath." 

Kevin is going to murder Aaron. Instead he gets up, stretches his arms and points one finger to Aaron. "I'm going to take a shower. If you don't want to be bored, then brew me a coffee. If you say you're bored again I'm dragging you to Court and going full Raven on you and you will hate it. You will hate it so much that you and Neil Josten will open a club, a we hate the Ravens club." He keeps grumbling as his fingers brush through one freshly clean shirt and a pair of sweats and throws it in bed. Kevin picks up his toothbrush and starts the shower, brushing his teeth at the same time he tries to rinse his hair.

It's not the brightest idea he's ever had, it's actually quite hard to shower and brush his teeth when he’s still half asleep, but Kevin Day is not a quitter. He conquers this particular challenge and dresses himself to find Aaron waiting by the coffee maker.

"I don't know how you take yours."

"Black, no sugar." Kevin points to the big ceramic mug on the drying rack as he towels his hair and cleans his ears. "If you're hungry there's bread on the fridge and maybe some deli…"Aaron hums at him, pouring practically the whole pot of coffee on a mug and handing it to Kevin, who moves to flop on the couch and nurse his drink. They stay in silence for a while, Kevin sipping on his coffee and Aaron cleaning the dishes that were piling up again on the sink. When Kevin's brain finally comes online he looks at Aaron, who looks back at him as he wrings his hands on a dishcloth. "Come here."

Aaron moves, sitting by Kevin's side and trying to sip on his coffee, only to cough it. "Awful."

"Duly noted. Want to watch something on Netflix before you abduct me into another sort of IKEA place?" Kevin asks as Aaron picks up the controller and plays the first episode of Sabrina. "...That looks awful."

"Yeah, but I've seen everything that's interesting on Netflix." Aaron says, placing his legs on the coffee table and cuddling up to Kevin. "When I said I was bored, I mean it." Kevin looks down at Aaron, who's playing with the ends of his sweater. "I don't think I know how to be alone. I've always had people around me- my mother, Nicky, Andrew, the Foxes… Even when I was alone I always had someone to come to," Aaron says unprompted and Kevin pulls him near, tucking him comfortably under his arm and against his ribs. "It feels…weird. To be alone."

Kevin hums, sipping on the last drops of his coffee. "I understand. But at the same time I don't. I mean, being alone was better than the other option." Aaron looks up at him and Kevin doesn't stop himself from reaching up and tuck an errand strand of blond hair behind his ear. "I don't feel alone in here. I have my mother. Or at least her memory." 

Aaron nods at him, his hand moving to cradle Kevin's hand and play with the claddagh ring. "It was hers right?" Kevin nods back at him and arranges their limbs so they're back to laying down on the sofa, his feet hanging on the edge as Aaron lays on his side. "It's pretty."

"Next time just say you need company instead of kidnapping me to fake IKEA or showing up out of the blue. Deal?"

He listens to Aaron snort, watches as he turns his head, his hazel eyes squinted in a sheepish smile. "I hate that word, but deal. Now shut up, if I remember correctly Sabrina had a sassy black cat." 

Kevin shakes his head and ignores the show, despite Aaron's surprise appearance he still intends to sleep the whole day. The show, awful with a lot of references Kevin doesn't get, is the lull he needs to close his eyes and sleep. Aaron is like a tiny furnace on top of him, so he doesn't need a blanket, just...Aaron. Aaron running hot, with his left hand splayed on his chest and his legs tangled with his. 

Kevin falls asleep within ten minutes and there's nothing anyone can do about it. It's one dreamless sleep, invaded sometimes by the words coming from the television and the rumble of a thunder far away. He wakes up hours later to Aaron's careful gaze and the storm roaring outside. "Hm," he grumbles and Aaron laughs, his breath tickling Kevin's neck. 

"You didn't miss a thing. They didn't have the sassy cat." Aaron says and Kevin turns them to their side, squishing Aaron against the couch as he closes his eyes. "Can't believe you're still tired."

"Sleeping in was frowned upon in the Nest, let me have my beauty sleep." Kevin says, tucking Aaron's head under his chin and hiking his leg up his hip. "You're comfortable. Like this tiny heater." That earns Kevin a slap in the chest, which he responds by squeezing Aaron harder against the couch. "You are tiny and warm."

"Glad to be of service." Aaron says before his phone starts ringing on the coffee table. Kevin picks up Aaron's phone and hands it to him, watching the frown distort his face. Aaron hums in answer as someone chats on the other end, looking up at Kevin every once in a while. "Fine, I'll be picking up your ass. Warn me next time you come. What if I was doing something?" Kevin raises an eyebrow as Aaron talks and talks, his eyes rolling in displeasure and disbelief. "Ok Nicky, sit there for like 15 minutes. No, I don't trust you to walk around Cleveland by yourself… No, not even with Andrew… wait." Kevin gives Aaron space to move, watching him use the back of the sofa to pull his torso up. "Andrew is there with you?"

Kevin rolls away from the sofa, allowing Aaron to get up and pace the length of his apartment. "Oh great, so the whole of PSU is coming..?" Aaron shakes his head. "And when did I invite all of you to stay in my apartment? No Nicky, I only have two beds and one sofa. No Nicholas, I won't share my bed with Matt. I had to share my dorm with him and I still remember his snoring…oh great you brought sleeping bags?" Aaron keeps pacing, almost as if he's trying to burn a hole into the carpet. "Fuck, you guys know that my season starts next Saturday? Coach is coming? Ugh, fine, tell them to pick a rental car, I can't fit all of the Foxes in mine. No. Absolutely not Nicholas. I'll talk to you as soon as I can, draw straws to see who will take the passenger seat. Be there in thirty." Aaron finally hangs up and Kevin looks up at him. Watches carefully as Aaron chews his bottom lip, slaps his phone against his open palm and finally releases a sigh.

"Will that be a problem?" Is what crawls out of Kevin's mouth and Aaron rolls his eyes, shoving his shoes back on. 

"Only if they keep me awake. Or see your face. Your facial tramp stamp is not liked by the Foxes." Aaron stuffs his arms into his coat, zipping it up with another sigh. "I won't bring them to the court, but they all bought tickets to our first game."

It's Kevin's turn to sigh, running his fingers through his messy and still wet hair. "Well, as long as they don't stand in my way." He gets up, kissing Aaron's forehead. "Will night training be a problem?"

Aaron closes his eyes, enjoying one last stolen moment of solitude with Kevin. "Josten might oppose it, since it’s a former Raven leading us but he would be a hypocrite, seeing how we used to train at night and he was a Raven for like… a few weeks or something." 

"Right, so I see you on Monday?" Kevin says, to which Aaron nods as he leans forward and lays his head against Kevin's chest, seeming like he's rebuilding himself with each intake of air. "This might be a good time to remind you that our training facilities are not open to the public, not even your family." 

He watches as Aaron steps back, his head hitting the door. "What the fuck do I do?" Aaron asks, running his hand across his face. Kevin takes a step forward, cupping Aaron's face in his hand and kissing his closed eyes. "I mean… I didn't think they would come all the way to Ohio to see me playing at the MLE. It sounded so insignificant you know?" 

Well, Kevin knows one thing or two about being insignificant. Honestly he's just glad that neither Riko nor Tetsuji are paying him enough attention to come to one of their games. "Just use your time with them wisely, ok?" He kisses his fluttering lashes again, then Aaron's cheekbone, his nose and finally presses their lips together. "If you need somewhere to take the kids, take them to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame." Aaron snorts, licking the seam of Kevin's lips and deepening the kiss. Kevin wraps his arms around Aaron's waist, squeezing their bodies together.

"Right coach," Aaron replies, licking the string of saliva connecting their lips. "See you in the showers." Kevin unlocks the door, looking both ways and kissing Aaron once more when he sees the hallways are empty. 

"Get there in time," Kevin says, watching Aaron sprint for the stairway. He shakes his head and comes back to the empty apartment- which now feels weird. Sabrina is frozen on his screen and there is a distinct lack of a body to warm him up. He changes the Netflix account and falls back into the sofa with a huff. His house still smells like coffee and Aaron and it might take him some time to cope with the loneliness. 

It's a weird weekend. 

Kevin goes out in the light drizzle for a quick run. The few reporters camping at his door try to squeeze something out of him, but he ignores them, running laps around his block to spend some of the anxiety fizzling on his frayed nerves.

It's a weird week.

He is able to keep his players in check, but he isn't able to stop himself when he looks to his right and doesn't see Sanders. However, Miller is there and he focuses on talking to the other coaches, arranging play calls.

More players join the nightly training until Thursday.

On Friday he dismisses all the players from night training and watches with some jealousy as the Foxes round up Aaron's car- that's something the media has been talking a lot, the old lineup of the Foxes camped in the Black Jacket's parking lot almost like they're training for a tailgate party. 

On Saturday, he wakes up with Sanders calling him. Feels good to hear his voice, reassuring even. But he moves as if he's underwater; everytime his head comes up another wave breaks on top of him. He sees the same shadow in everyone in the locker room--even Luke seems to be a bit shaken--but regardless of his nerves, he calls up the players to the huddle, their arms touching everywhere as he makes his speech. Kevin doesn't listen to half of it, looking for Aaron's determined hazel eyes. 

Aaron smiles at him, softly, secretive, it is the nod he needed to gather his breath. "Warm up," Kevin says, and it's thankful that his voice didn't break. "Luke, keep them on our side of the Court, I don't want anyone antagonizing the Pumas." The players nod at him and Kevin takes strength in each hopeful face. "Say hi to your families first. Let them be your pillar. You have five minutes."

Slowly, they filter out of the locker room and Kevin fiddles with the equipment, adjusting his microphone and hearing Luke talking to his wife on his end. When he steps into the Court and breathes in there's a flurry of flashes blinding him, but Kevin keeps his head high, looking out for Aaron and finding him being enveloped by a tall Hispanic man. The rest of the Foxes look happy enough to have Aaron in his black and golden uniform and he focuses on Wymack's lined face. 

It's not the first time he catalogs the similarities between himself and David Wymack- their frown looks similar, Kevin would have the same scruffy beard if he didn't shave religiously. Maybe when he's older, he will have the same crow feet around his eyes. "Minyard," Kevin calls and several pairs of unfriendly eyes lock on him. "warm up, you're on the starter line." Aaron nods at him and joins his teammates.

Kevin takes his position, fiddles with the claddagh on his pinkie, greets the referees and shepherds his players into an orderly line. "This is it, coach." Luke whispers before the referees open the court. 

"Watch out for Lincoln, Luke."

He watches as his captain nods and feels the first pull of Baker, getting him away from the Court and into his spot. The sound of the door closing makes his heart pump faster. 

Kevin doesn't know how he makes it through the first half, pacing the outskirts of the Court and more often than not being pulled back by Baker when a referee runs in front of him. He moves his players, subs them when they start to lose wind and when the halftime comes, they're incredible five points ahead of the Pumas. There's an energy cracking in their locker room and no one dares to say a thing. He checks the injured players- Donahue was ruled out with a concussion, Beau sprained his wrist. He pats Aaron's head and flicks Harriet's ear when she calls him Coach's favorite. "Get back there. We're playing safe. Defense, if any of you scores then you get to tell Baker what to cook for a week."

"Hey!" Baker protests and Kevin sees an infective smile extend from player to player as they go back to the court. 

With the effort, it's not a surprise when they win. He can hear the overenthusiastic cheer of the fans, the chatter of the commenters. He feels tired when his players surround him, lifting him up like he weighs nothing. "Fine, fine!" Kevin finds Aaron's hazel eyes in a corner, smiling at him. "Luke and Harriet, you're on press duty. Good game tonight, take the weekend to rest and we'll be back on Monday."

Kevin ignores the microphones thrown his way when he passes by the throng of reporters and goes home to lay his tired body in bed and touch the claddagh ring on his pinkie. _I'm gonna make it, mom_. It's the last thought in his head as he falls asleep. 

And wakes up to the incessant ring of his phone. "Hm," he grunts into the receiver, already knowing who's calling him at half past noon. 

"You busy?" Aaron asks and he can hear the commotion behind him. "We ordered pizza and I think… Well, I think the Foxes want to meet you." He says sheepishly. 

"Thought you were calling to say you're bored." Kevin jokes as he rolls around in bed. "I appreciate the invite, but I think I'll pass."

Aaron makes a dissatisfied noise on the other end. It sounds like he's locking himself somewhere, probably the bathroom from the noise of the exhaustion fan."You sure? I think Coach really wants to meet you." 

"Yeah, don't overdo today," Kevin grumbles, stretching in bed. It's tempting to find a reason to talk with his father but what would they talk about? Exy? Would he be able to hold back his tongue and not say a thing? And what good would it make to drop that piece of information on Wymack's lap? There are no pros in what Kevin can think, so he buries that secret alongside many others.

Kevin moves around the house silently, moving his neck and dispelling the stiffness from sleep as he brews a pot of coffee. This sunday he doesn't feel like he wants to watch Netflix or listen to his mother's soundtrack. "Ok," Aaron sounds tired, a bit hopeless and Kevin feels his heart clenching. "If you change your mind then call me ok?"

He hums back, then hangs up on Aaron. There's an itch in his bones and Kevin knows there's only one way to scratch it. After he downs his pot of coffee, Kevin changes into something more comfortable and jogs downstairs to his car. Fortunately, there are no reporters in sight and he drives peacefully to the Black Jackets' stadium, feeling the familiar weight of the racquet in his hands. 

He feels selfish for taking the court for himself, but Kevin needs a moment of solitude between himself and the ball. He doesn't line up cones, he just traces imaginary lines and hits the goal time and time again, hearing the satisfying beep of the goal. 

His eyes close at his own accord, and he daydreams about being inside the court, holding his racquet high with each goal as the crowd cheers. Kevin knows it's impossible, his hand is far too weak for that, but he can dream of being part of the roster. He takes a deep breath and runs, hitting the balls on the acrylic walls and watching the goal light up time and time again. 

"You're addicted to this, you know?" 

Kevin stops mid play and turns around to see Aaron unlocking the Court- he looks good in a casual black shirt and jeans, like he's making no effort in looking pretty. 

"Thought you were celebrating." Kevin says, crossing the court in a jog to meet him halfway. 

"We ran out of alcohol." Aaron says, standing on his tiptoes to kiss the black neck guard around Kevin's throat. "I was the only one sober enough to get more." 

Kevin nods, bowing his head and kissing Aaron's lips softly. He not only looks good, he smells good. Like freshly washed clothes and his own perfume. "Good to know you're not drinking and driving." He whispers against Aaron's mouth. Aaron crosses his arms around Kevin's neck and Kevin has to reach out and hold on to Aaron's hips with his free hand "Why did you stop by?"

"Had a feeling you'd be here." Aaron whispers and Kevin finds himself smiling at his favorite backliner. "I can't take long, Andrew is waiting for me in the car...you sure you don't want to come with us?" 

He nods again, pressing their lips together one more time. "Absolutely, go enjoy your first win, you deserve it."

"It's also your first." Aaron states, letting go of Kevin and planting his feet on the ground. "Don't overdo."

"I won't, I still have to watch the other games from last night." Kevin says, squeezing Aaron's hip and pulling apart from him. "No alcohol."

"Won't promise you anything." Aaron whispers, winking at Kevin and leaving the court. He plays alone for maybe half an hour before his hand protests and he has to head into the showers. The cold water feels good against his muscles, relaxing them as Kevin runs the soap over his body, taking notes of the scars across his body- what was formerly a canvas for Riko is now the proof of his survival, each cut and mark tells a story of his half brother losing control and Kevin coming out alive. 

He is going to make good on his promise. He is going to make it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the get back coach is real! [I CAN PROVE IT](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k_yFxISAQPs)

**Author's Note:**

> i go [feral](https://twitter.com/dogintheboiler) sometimes


End file.
